


Partners

by SallyExactly



Series: At My Back [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationship, Asexual Character, Asexual Characters, Gen, Origin Story, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:17:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 303,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SallyExactly/pseuds/SallyExactly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strike Team Delta, from beginning to end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From Russia With Love

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
> On-screen, this story contains repeated: graphic depictions of violence; violent death and assassination; severe bodily harm; disturbing imagery; disordered eating.
> 
> On-screen, this story contains occasional: torture of the intensity displayed in the Marvel movies; abuse, including of children; suicide; mutilation; sexual harassment; terrorism.
> 
> In addition to the above, this story references past or off-screen: brainwashing, including of children; rape and sexual abuse, including of minors.
> 
> This list may be incomplete. Please check the warnings at the beginning of each chapter.
> 
> Many thanks to C for spending many hours editing and being a sounding board, and to N for proofreading. Any remaining mistakes are mine. Thanks also to E and K.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter contains graphic violence; severe bodily harm and mutilation; violent death; and references to brainwashing and abuse, including of children. Please see the end notes for more detailed, spoilery warnings.

Clint was _freezing_ , and someone was taking his clothes off.

“Wtthefck?” he managed.

Then he passed out again.

*

He was awake.

What was going on? He was warm, so he had to be inside somewhere. But all he could hear was... static. His ears weren’t in pain, his eardrums were fine, he just couldn’t _hear_. A blow to the head?

Warm— he was warm. That was important. Why?

He opened his eyes and saw-- not much. Everything in his field of vision was an indistinct white. He started to panic. His hearing was one thing, but his _sight_ \--

Something dark blue moved-- a jacket. Someone else. He recognized her, and remembered: falling through the ice; bitter, paralyzing cold; holding his breath as long as he could, and trying to make it back to the hole in the ice before he drowned. 

The images coalesced into something sensible. That was a window, with a white-out outside. He was inside a crude hut with Natal-- Natasha. She must have pulled him out. He hadn’t imagined being warm, or being naked: he was wrapped in a soft blanket, and then in a crinkly space blanket. He felt embarrassed for a moment, that she must have stripped him, and then was just glad to be alive.

“Nat.” He'd stopped thinking of her as _Romanova_ somewhere between nearly dying in a cave in North Carolina, and nearly dying in his cabin in North Carolina; when she'd gone and changed his name, it'd tripped up his brain and tongue. Usually he could stop himself before he got to “-alia,” and she didn't seem to mind the nickname.

It hurt to talk. His throat was raw. From swallowing water, or vomiting it back up?

She looked up from the tiny fire she was tending. “How do you feel?”

He groaned. “What happened besides the obvious?”

“I fished you out, found this place, and dragged you here.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Gotta stop needing you to save my ass.”

Her smirk did not quite hide the genuine warmth in her expression. “But I’m good at it.”

He snorted softly, then winced at the pain. “Damn lucky for me.” He frowned. “The crash, was there... a _rocket_?”

“Yes.” Her expression was grim. 

He took a breath to consider that. “Someone shot us down, we should get out now.”

She shook her head. “Nothing can get through this storm. I can barely get a signal out. If we try to walk out, we're asking to die.”

He wasn't up to fighting a blizzard; he didn't even know if he could walk. He looked around. “Pass me my gear?”

She handed his bow case, and his quiver. He sat up halfway-- that didn't hurt too bad-- and opened them. Both were dry. He shook out his bow. “You haul all this out?”

“No, Barton, I batted my eyelashes at the nearest man until he took pity on my frail, delicate self.”

He snorted, pictured Nat hauling him, his weapons, _and_ the emergency kit across the snow, and counted himself lucky that he'd never underestimated her in any fatal way. He drew an arrow and laid it on the string, and felt a little better. “They at least drop us on the right side of the line?”

“Yes. We're in Russia.”

He looked her over. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What’d you hurt?”

She kept her face blank. “What makes you think I hurt anything?”

“Because you usually say ‘fine’ when you’re not.”

“I wrenched my wrist. It’s not a big deal.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t push it. She was an adult; she could take care of herself. “D'you know who took us down? I-- didn't see.” It galled him, to say that.

She made a strange face. “I saw something running away, fast, to the north. I think it might have been our target.”

“Our _target_? -- Some _thing_?”

“Too big to be human, and it didn't move like one.”

“… bear?”

“It was running on two legs.”

Clint’s mind populated the wind with inhuman growls and snarls. He touched the grip of his bow to reassure himself. 

“And it looked like it was carrying a rocket launcher.”

_Shit._ Their briefing had been short on actual descriptions, photographs, or even well-done sketches, but how many angry superhuman monsters could there be running around between eastern Europe and eastern Russia? “Yeah, that sounds like our target. How did it even find us?” 

“If it still had eyes on Kiev, it could have seen the plane. Maybe it saw us fly over and recognized the markings.”

And that was going to be a problem, leaving a S.H.I.E.L.D. plane crashed in the Russian countryside. “If it’s superhuman, you think this storm’ll take it out?”

“It was waiting for us.”

“… yeah.” He put his first arrow back; his fingers hesitated over the riser. Which arrowhead would best take down a huge, super-fast creature that could survive in Siberia in the winter and was intelligent enough to get _and use_ a rocket launcher? Not to mention had tracked them all the way from Kiev through Astana and Ulaanbaatar. He tapped out the combination for a tranq, and then for an explosive. He nocked the tranq and put the explosive in his lap. Then he tried not to fidget. He didn't like this one bit. They should be out chasing their target, not staying in one place like this-- but they couldn't fight a blizzard.

“Thanks for saving my gear.”

“You’re welcome, Barton. And you can stop thanking me.”

He snorted. “‘kay.” He pulled the blankets closer. “You warm enough?” The hut's walls were thin, and even with the fire and the two blankets, he was chilly.

She looked equal parts irritated and… he wanted to call it _fond_ , but wasn’t that a little too close? Were they people who let themselves be _fond_ of each other? “You nearly died. Stop fussing.”

“This is not how I pictured our first mission,” he muttered after a minute. Crashed, stuck in a snowstorm with their target either long gone or actively hunting them, effectively blind until the weather cleared up--

“You’ve been with S.H.I.E.L.D. how long and you still make predictions like that?”

“Point.”

“Besides, our first mission was Kuching.”

“That didn't count.” Fury had sent them there shortly after their commissioning, but it had been more of a dry run than anything else.

“Ontario, then.”

“Yeah. You ended up in the river, and I ended up in the back of a stolen ambulance.” Was this any worse?

He watched her for a while. She had to know he was watching, but she didn’t object, or look up. “Is it weird? Being back in Russia?” 

She shook her head. “No. I was here a lot, between breaking out and joining S.H.I.E.L.D. I was in demand for local jobs, because of my knowledge of the area. And the Red Room was here.”

“Nearby?”

“No.”

“And you’re not from Siberia,” he prompted after a minute.

Finally she looked over, a smirk at the corner of her mouth. “And I’m not from Siberia.”

He watched the steam rising from his clothes. Then he looked more closely at her face. “What is it?”

He waited patiently for an answer.

“I know I’ve been in this region before, but I don’t remember it clearly.”

“Ah.”

“So it was with Them.”

He waited a moment. “You gonna be okay?”

“I’m always okay.”

He wasn’t sure if she was telling him to back off, trying to reassure herself, or affirming what she saw as a basic truth, but he didn’t let it go. “ _Comfortably_ okay?”

“I’m fine.” Her sardonic smile vanished. “They had me for most of my life. I can't pretend it didn't happen.”

“’s smart.” Maybe that was a strategy he should employ. And maybe pigs would start flying past the hut so he and Natasha could fry some bacon. She was braver than he was.

“Are you getting warm?”

“Uh, yeah. Nice and toasty in here.” He looked out the window. It was still coming down hard, with no signs of stopping. “So. How d'you wanna pass the time?”

She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, or disbelief.

“If you give me your hand I’ll read your palm.”

“You’ll _read my palm_?”

“Sure. I was a carnie for six years. Formative ones. Hey, Natasha, you want your palm read?”

She eyed him, then, hesitantly, held out her hand.

“Okay, first, I need some paint.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. He grinned, a little relieved. He still wasn't sure where all the lines were, with him and her. Only a few people had the ability to tolerate his smart-assness for long periods of time, and most of them were named Phil.

He poked one hand out of the blankets and carefully turned her wrist with his fingertips. He studied her hand. “You have a life line. That’s good.”

She stared at him.

“Hey, according to this—“ He looked up. “God, it’s right!”

She stared at him.

“You have a head!”

“... Astound me more.”

“Hmm, okay.” He traced a line in the air over her palm. “Says here your hand is wrinkled.”

She pulled her hand back, and tried to give him an unimpressed look, but couldn’t— didn’t— quite hide her smile.

“I’m open to suggestions. Twenty questions?”

“Fine. Why didn’t you kill me in Klaipeda?”

He abruptly stopped smiling. “What— ” _I thought we were past that_.

She waved a hand in front of her face as if brushing away cobwebs. “I’m not-- asking because of your motives. I’m asking because I need, I, I need to know-- about _me_.”

_You want to know what I saw in you?_ “Oh.” He took his time about his answer. “Don’t think this is going to be very satisfying to you.”

“I don’t care.”

“All right.” He shrugged. “You started beating that guy, and you went from a target to a mystery.”

“That you needed to solve?”

“No, that I--” He shook his head. “Natasha, I don’t have much in the way of morality. But when I stopped being a merc, I decided I wouldn’t ever kill again without a reason. And if the reason S.H.I.E.L.D. gave me to kill you wasn’t accurate— It wasn’t right.” 

He watched her for a moment. “When Fury gave me your picture he said you were older than you looked. He also said you’d been operating for eight years. I saw you up close, and I was pretty sure you looked your real age. I did the math.”

For a minute, the only sound was the howling of the wind. Then: “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He watched her stare at the fire. “Why did you come after me in North Carolina?”

She looked irked, but if she could bring up old topics of conversation, then so could he. “I thought I knew where you were, and no one else did. I didn’t want your death on my hands.”

“You could have told S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Coulson said you were out of your mind. A search might have spooked you. It needed someone sneaky.”

“Mmm.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Tell me you would have gone back there, if S.H.I.E.L.D. had found out about it.”

“I wouldn’t have gone back.” He also looked at the fire, not at her. “So. Thank you.”

“I don’t want to be _thanked_.”

When he looked up, she looked irritated, but she was also smiling a little. “Fine. Your turn, then?”

“I can figure out anything else I want to know myself.”

“What, you're psychic now?”

“You’re like an open book, Barton.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So go ahead. Take _your_ turn, if you want it.”

“I’ll just read it all in your palm.” He gave her a shit-eating grin. She gave him a look that said he was full of it, but didn’t quite succeed in not smiling.

He wasn’t sad they were done with the deeply personal questions. “Hey, I have one. Why did the chicken cross the road?”

Natasha stared at him blankly. “What?”

“No, you’re supposed to say ‘why.’”

“What?”

“It’s a classic American joke, Romanoff.”

“ _What_?”

“Just say 'why.'”

“Are chickens particularly prone to crossing roads?”

“Hey, that sounded like a ‘why’ to me. Because the walk sign was flashing!”

Natasha stared at him.

Clint kept his grin firmly in place, waiting for one of them to flinch.

“Are you perhaps feverish?” she asked finally.

“You’ve never heard a why did the chicken cross the road joke before?”

“Ignorance was bliss.”

“It’s a comedic staple! See, the idea is that the person who asks ‘why’ expects an actual joke answer, but the original answer was ‘to get to the other side.’ It’s a subversion. Hey, why did the turkey cross the road?”

She stared.

“You’re supposed to say ‘why.’”

“No.”

“‘Why, Clint?’” he asked in a high-pitched voice. “Because he didn’t want to be chicken!”

“Your impression of me is terrible. Why did the chicken cross the road in front of a semi?”

“You’re getting the hang of it.”

“‘You’re supposed to say ‘why’’,” she mimicked.

“Your impression of me is terrible. Why?”

“To get away from your jokes.”

“… you took that in an unnecessarily dark direction.”

“I’m Russian.” 

“Yeah, well, in Soviet Russia, jokes tell you.” It had been a _long_ time since he'd seen anything as funny as the blank, irritated bafflement on her face. “Oh, tell me you've heard Russian reversals before.”

“We are going to pretend the last five minutes never happened,” she said, after a pointed, disbelieving silence. “Are you sure you're not feverish?” She felt his face, then his shoulders. She rested her hand below his throat. “Can I--”

“Yeah.”

She slid her hand a few inches down his sternum. “You’re warming up.” She rested her other hand against his cheek for a minute. “How do you feel?”

“'Fine.'” He winced. “Pass me the painkillers?”

She handed him a bottle. He fumbled to open it, then swallowed a couple of pills.

“I’ll keep an eye out if you wanna sleep.” He'd rested-- well, been unconscious-- while she'd labored, and as soon as the storm cleared, they would have to run hard, to have any hope of picking up the thing’s trail.

“You should get dressed, it's cold.” She wrapped herself in a second space blanket, then curled up on her side— her back towards him, without any apparent hesitation.

It had been a long time since he'd started trusting her with his life, and he thought it was the same for her. His unease wasn't on that account. But-- he wasn't really sure what the next step in a relationship was, after 'we saved each other's lives and kicked ass together.' In his world, there was one word for someone who knew his secrets and his vulnerabilities, who saved his life and needed _his_ help-- and that word was Coulson.

He really hadn't expected this, when he'd jumped off that roof in Klaipeda. But he didn't regret it, not any of it, not for a moment. Thinking about the woman he'd handcuffed in that alley, compared to the woman sleeping across the fire from him--

He hadn't saved her life, not that time. But he'd helped her save her own.

He'd done unquestionably right, for once. Nothing about this he had to cringe away from remembering. He'd made the right call.

_Drifting, Barton_. He turned to keep an eye on the door, not that the walls would stop much.

No signal on his earpiece or his phone. He moved his clothes closer to the fire, so they’d dry faster. Better to have scorched clothes than risk hypothermia with damp ones.

The wind continued to cry and moan. He imagined the heavy _thud_ of an enormous footstep behind each wail. Or would the thing run very lightly? It would have to, if it went quickly over snow without any aid, right? So they probably wouldn’t hear it coming at all. 

_Shouldn't have slept through Lab Accident Physiology 101._

He rooted through the pile of stuff from the plane. A couple days’ worth of food; a first aid kit; flares; matches; a solar charger for the gear; a GPS unit, currently useless. He dug further and found the black box. It was self-contained, with no mechanism for transmission or display, but it _would_ have their last known location.

He persuaded the black box to talk to the GPS unit, and found where the box thought they'd crashed. Given their speed and the landmarks he remembered, it looked about right. He zoomed out, studying the region. North, Nat had said. Where would a superhuman creature go up north? _Can't know until I know what it wants._

He put on his dry clothes. A gust of cold air swirled around the door as he pulled his undershirt on. He swallowed a groan. Was the change in wind direction a sign that the storm was moving on? He tugged his boots on-- the insides were dry, thank God-- and laced them with numb fingers. Then he stood in the doorway of the hut and looked out. He still couldn't see anything, but the snow was swirling now instead of blowing from one direction. 

“Is the storm gone?”

“Not yet.”

Nat went back to sleep. He cleaned his guns and watched the snow again. It was a visual white noise that fascinated, and frightened, him. There weren’t many situations in which his eyes were completely useless. He didn’t like those situations.

Judging from the shape of the drifts, the wind had been blowing steadily from behind the hut. Except for one right by the door, Nat's footprints were already buried. At least the storm should make them impossible to track, even for someone who found the plane. The smoke wouldn’t be visible in the storm, either, and as soon as it died down, they would leave.

A loud _crack_ behind him-- He jumped and dove for his bow as a giant fist smashed through the back of the hut. Snow and wood went everywhere, extinguishing the fire. Clint nocked an arrow as the fist struck again, enlarging the hole. Clint clearly saw the man— thing— towering over the back of the hut. He had to be at least seven feet tall. His skin was a sickly color, and he smelled like rot.

The man smashed through the wood and grabbed for Natasha. She rolled under his arm and eluded his fingers. Clint shot him. The arrow landed deep in his bulging, muscular forearm; he howled, and flinched backwards. Nat emptied half a clip into his legs-- if they immobilized him they could take him alive-- The blood pouring from the wounds looked _wrong_ , but Clint didn’t have time to figure it out now. The monster-man grabbed a piece of wood and swung it towards Clint’s head. Clint flattened himself on the ground, knees and hips protesting, and barely avoided getting his brains pasted on the wall. He got his legs out from under him and rolled out of the way as the creature tried to smash him on the ground. Clint grabbed a handful of snow and flung it in the other man’s eyes, hard enough that the man howled again and dropped the beam to rub at his eyes. He had an arrow in his arm and many bullets in his legs, but he was still standing— and-- _what_ \-- the wounds were barely bleeding.

Natasha emptied her second gun into the creature-man’s torso. He staggered back, and gave a tortured wheeze. If one of the bullets had found his lungs— and if the arrow and bullets were staying _inside him_ as he healed impossibly quickly— Clint felt sick. The tall man hesitated at the back of the hut— they watched to see which way he would jump—

With a mighty shove, he brought the roof down on them.

Clint dropped his bow, flung himself down on it, and covered his head and neck with his hands as snow and wood collapsed on them. Natasha grunted in pain. Boards landed across his back and legs— he tensed—

\-- nothing else fell. He wasn’t dead.

He was pinned, the breath and the sense knocked out of him. But snow trickling onto the back of his head spurred him to action. There was six inches of the stuff piled on top of them; they needed to get out before they used up their air. He wriggled around and tried to move the beams pinning him down. He couldn’t just stand up-- even if he could, he’d probably get a roofing nail in his face for his trouble. “Nat?” he called roughly.

“He--re.” She sounded in about the same shape he was.

He couldn’t hear— or smell— the creature. Throwing down the roof had felt like an act of finality, pinning them for a retreat. If he'd wanted them dead, he'd be digging through the rubble already. Or was he waiting for them to pop up, battered and disoriented, so he could deal with them one at a time?

Clint wriggled onto his side and started shifting some of the larger stuff with his free hand. _Ah, shit_. Getting out from under boards was bad enough, but boards _and_ wet, heavy snow? _I’m getting too old for this shit_. That was a depressing thought. _I'm not even thirty, and where else am I gonna go?_

_Existential angst later, escape now_. With both hands, he levered the nearest board up, using it as a bulldozer to move everything above it. He gritted his teeth and pushed harder. He forced the debris far enough to stick his upper body through the snow, and came up gun-first, sweeping the ruins. Tracks led off to the east— Nat was right, those were spaced too far for a normal man— but their attacker was already out of sight.

He stumbled and fell as he freed his legs, and-- just as he’d expected-- struck his arm on a roofing nail. It was a wonder he’d only done it once. He grimaced, and used his fingers to stop the bleeding. Good thing S.H.I.E.L.D. was so uptight about tetanus boosters.

Finally he shook a particularly stubborn board off his boot, and reached back for his bow and quiver. The patch of debris near where he’d last seen Natasha was shaking. He navigated the uneven terrain of boards and snow between them, and helped her dig out from under a particularly long piece of wood. Finally she shoved it far enough aside to pop up through the snow.

He checked her for obvious injuries. “Just like a snowdrop in spring.”

She looked around the wreckage. “Barton, the only flowers you may compare me to are the carnivorous ones.”

“What about cacti?”

“No.”

“Oleander? It's toxic.”

“No.”

“Duly noted, Agent Romanoff.”

“Did you see him go?”

“No.” The wreckage wasn’t as deep at the front of the shack. He found the black box, the GPS, the med kit, the ammo, and some food. “You ready to run?”

“Yeah.”

_Run_ was an overstatement. Without snowshoes it was more like _flounder in hot pursuit_. Or _step carefully in hot pursuit._ No snow pants, either, which would become deadly rather than inconvenient if they were out here long enough.

With the storm and the wind gone, the footprints would stay clearly visible. Clint wasn’t sure it was going to matter. The man had a lead on them, and was unbelievably fast. They weren’t gonna catch him any time soon. But they could still doggedly follow him, staying as close as possible for when he stopped, or rested, or had a moment of weakness. There were two of them and one of him. They’d get a chance eventually.

They slogged on without speaking, walking through the footprints to destroy the trail. They reached a particularly distinct set; he stopped and studied them. They were unusually wide, even beyond what was proportional to this man's unnatural height. They got shallower at the edges, and there was another faint imprint outside the outline, like the feet had wings. “Was he wearing shoes?”

Natasha hesitated. “I didn’t notice, either.”

They kept going. The cold was getting dangerous when they struggled up a hill and saw a town spread out below them. He thought back to the map, and nodded. It shouldn’t be hard to find someone as conspicuous as their target, even if he was holed up.

Clint saw smoke on the horizon, and heard the whistle of a train. Beyond the town, a thin black line snaked along in the snow. As they watched, a dark blob detached from the embankment and threw itself aboard one of the cars. _Well, shit_.

Natasha made a face that echoed the same sentiment. “We need a car.”

They 'acquired' a car in town and headed for the highway. She drove; she knew the way. With luck, they could beat the train to the next station, get on board, search it, and then backtrack if their target wasn't--

“Nat--”

She saw it, too-- the brakes squealed as they slid to a stop, staring at the roadblock up ahead. “What the fuck?” she muttered.

They watched it for a moment. “You wanna risk it?” Their IDs were good, but if someone asked Clint to talk--

She shook her head. “I don't think they're letting _anyone_ through.” As they watched, the soldiers forced a small sedan to turn around. “We have to catch the next train.”

“We can't catch him if we're behind him going the same speed.”

“No, but we can steal a car at the next station.” She pointed them back towards town. “ _He_ attacked _us_. Twice. He followed us from Kiev. He only ran away when we overpowered him. He wants our attention. He won't get off the train without making sure we know about it.”

Clint couldn't argue with that, and he didn't have any better ideas. They ditched the car where they'd taken it, and trudged to the station. The paper schedules posted on the wall were all Cyrillic to him, but he could read the times: one had passed about half an hour ago; their target must have taken that one. And there was another coming soon. See, he didn't even need to read Russian! The name of the train was just a minor detail.

Nat pulled him to the far side of the blessedly warm room and said something in rapid Russian. He nodded, pretending to be interested. Then she tugged his ear down to her mouth and whispered, “He took a freight train. The schedule ends at midnight, but I know that line. It goes all the way to the sea.”

So their quarry could be disembarking anywhere in the thousand miles between here and the Pacific Ocean. 

“There's a local coming through here in twenty-five minutes. We’ll take that.”

He nodded, again.

Natasha disappeared to get food less conspicuous than meal bars, and returned with a medium—sized sack and a mysteriously large wad of rubles. The train whistled. She bought their tickets; the old clerk with rheumy eyes didn’t even look past her to see him. Then, reluctantly, they went outside to wait. He felt absently around in the sack, and took out a chunk of dark bread.

The dingy old train slid into the station and shuddered to a stop, as if it objected to being out on such a cold day. Clint sympathized. He couldn’t feel his face, or fingers, or toes, and he sure didn't have to worry about his sperm count dropping from overheating, any time soon. He might have to worry about his balls freezing and dropping _off_ , though.

A bored-looking woman in a uniform let down a set of stairs. One old woman, bundled up to her eyes against the cold, shuffled off the train. He followed Nat onboard; she handed over their tickets, and the conductor waved them into the car.

The last car was the emptiest. It wasn’t hard to figure out why: it was even older than the others, poorly insulated and cold, and the bathroom at the near end smelled badly enough to take away his appetite. The only ones who had braved the miasma were two harried-looking parents and their five children, spread out in the middle of their car. The father was occupied with the two middle kids, the mother with her infant. She reached for her blouse, glanced in his direction, and stopped; he averted his eyes and looked around the car. The eldest boy was sitting alone, reading a book and looking grumpy. The eldest girl wandered around. Finally she flounced dramatically into a nearby seat, and stared out the window, pouting. She scowled back at her family. Clint couldn't tell whether she wanted some of the food, or she wanted to pretend her family were complete strangers to her. Then her petulant scowl drooped into something sadder, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

_Poor kid_. He still had a hunk of bread in his lap. He waved to get her attention. When she looked up warily, he broke off three pieces and started juggling them. She stared. He added two more pieces. Her eyes widened, and then she grinned with delight. He winked, caught all the pieces, reached over, and dropped them in her outstretched palm. He watched her highly unsuccessful attempts out of the corner of his eye, and suppressed a grin at her obvious glee when she managed to keep two of them in the air at the same time.

He stretched, and caught Nat’s eye, out of the corner of his. She rolled her eyes at him. He shrugged. Then her expression changed, and she stared at the little redheaded girl with a faraway expression that made him sad, for reasons he didn't understand. She visibly shook herself, and went back to watching the window as they started to move.

Maybe it was a one-size-fits-all cure? He tore off another chunk, took careful aim, and bounced it off her forehead into her open palm. She jumped, then glared.

He settled down to watching his side of the tracks, as she watched hers. There was no sign that the man-creature had jumped off. They had no way of knowing how far he was going, or even if that _had_ been him, catching a ride at the last minute. Maybe he was holed up somewhere in town, watching _their_ train depart with satisfaction. What if he could get off without leaving tracks?

The bleak, white countryside slid by outside the window. The long stretches of snow, broken by the occasional fence piling or blackened stubble, blurred together. The only tracks he saw were dog-sized. He felt acutely that he was alone, deep inside a country where his language would immediately mark him out as conspicuous and suspicious, dependent entirely on Natasha.

The train slowed. Natasha reached for the bag of food-- he looked out the window, caught her eye, and shook his head, minutely. She turned and looked, too, and he saw her jaw tighten as she saw the roadblock in the far distance. They settled back down as the family disembarked.

She slid across to his side. “I don't like this.”

“They could be looking for him, too. He had to get the rocket launcher _somewhere_.”

“Maybe.” She glanced out the window again. “They'll be searching the trains, too.”

“Where’d you buy our tickets _to_?”

“All the way.”

“Where’d you get the money?”

“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

_Yeah, and I'm the pope._ The train pulled out of the station.He kept watching for a large, conspicuous sign saying, “Secret agents chasing failed laboratory experiment: for a good time, get off here.” 

“Too bad we're too far east to stop in Perm for drinks,” Natasha murmured, when they were sure the car would stay empty.

“Perm?”

“Yes. Briefly called Molotov.” 

It took him a minute to get it. “And you complain about _my_ jokes?”

The next stop was at a larger town, and they saw yet another roadblock. Natasha's eyes narrowed. “Stay here,” she murmured. “If I'm not back by the time the train leaves, get off.” She slipped out the door and through the station.

He watched her posture change to that of a tired, slightly cowed traveler as she walked at an angle towards the roadblock. The driver of a full car was arguing with one of the soldiers-- and behind them were a couple of familiar-looking people in civilian clothes. He'd never met them before, but secret agents all gave off the same air, if they didn't try to hide it.

Natasha turned and came back as the whistle blew. Her eyes were narrowed. “They're saying that they're hunting a soldier. A deserter, apparently. The roadblocks go on for hundreds of kilometers.”

“What kind of soldier do they shut down the whole highway for in the middle of winter, and bring the FSB in?”

She shrugged. “Someone with important secrets.”

He watched her for a minute, and then another. “You think it could be another... like you?”

Her head came up quickly, and he saw-- hope, maybe?-- in her expression, but it was gone too fast for him to be sure. “There are no others like me. They're all dead.” She was quiet for a moment. “I think they're hunting our target.”

“Stick to the train, then?” He grimaced. It wasn't a great plan, following a train route their target might or might not be taking, watching for whatever trap he was going to spring on them. But sneaking through checkpoint after checkpoint would leave them too far behind him, and if they started obviously running the roadblocks, they'd get some unwanted attention real fast.

She nodded, looking as happy about it as he felt.

Darkness settled over the car as they left the town behind. They had it to themselves again. The night dragged on with no break in the snow, no sign that it had been shaped by anything but wind and snowplows. “We haven't even seen the freight train.”

“It’s making fewer stops than we are.”

The miles stretched on. Or was it the kilometers stretching on? Both, he supposed. “Nat.”

“Mmm.”

“I can watch both sides if you wanna sleep.”

He looked over his shoulder long enough to see her hesitate, then nod once. He moved farther up the car, where he could watch both sides in his peripheral vision. Nat took the bench across from him, leaned against the window, and closed her eyes.

Time wasn't going any faster, but he didn’t feel tired. But the snow dragged was even more monotonous than the winters they’d spent touring the High Plains.

Natasha woke up at the next stop, when soldiers got on to search the car and check their IDs. Clint handed his over, and hoped they wouldn't ask him questions. He knew enough snatches of Russian to talk about his cover story, but not much beyond that. The soldier looked from him to his ID, back again, scrutinizing him carefully-- he got ready to move quickly if he had to-- then she handed it back and moved on to Natasha.

They started rolling again and pulled into a bigger town. He stretched his legs, and took a leak in the disgusting toilet. He heard passengers in the next car when he sat down again. A man opened the door, then turned to talk to someone behind him. Nat took one look at him, grabbed Clint’s wrist, and yanked him down to the bench, their backs to the door. “I know him,” she whispered. She buried her face in his shoulder.

Clint wriggled out of his jacket, draped it over her with the hood over her head, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Then he leaned back until his other shoulder met the wall, and put his leg up on the bench behind her. The group, all men in suits, entered the car. Clint stayed slouched, pretending to be another tired passenger who wasn’t at all alarmed to have strange people behind him.

They sat down in the middle of the car, talking softly. The train pulled out of the station. Nat watched the windows on their side. Clint tucked his chin on top of her head, and stared casually out the far window.

They passed through more small villages. Nat shifted in her “sleep” to put her face further down Clint’s shoulder, still watching the window. The men behind them seemed to be settled in for the long haul; some of them were alert, and some were snoring softly. They reminded Clint of him and Natasha, actually, taking alternate watches. Were they looking for something, too? Clint shifted, tucked himself into a more comfortable position in the corner, and brought his mouth closer to Nat’s ear. “Which one,” he breathed.

She shifted sleepily against him. “Tall. Beard.”

When he glanced around a few minutes later, there was only one man in the party who met that description. Clint let his gaze pass on without interest before leaning back against the wall again, eyes drooping with fatigue.

Where did Nat know him from? An independent job? Or the Red Room? Would he remember her? If he was from the Red Room, was she planning some inconspicuous way to kill him before he got off the train? They were all supposed to be dead...

At the next stop, one of the men got off and came back with a large box of food. Clint looked at it longingly for a minute. His own food was out of reach, under the seat.

The tall, bearded man noticed his look. He wandered up the aisle, and said something to Clint in Russian.

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” Clint replied softly.

The other man’s eyebrows rose. “A tourist.” His German was accented, but understandable.

Clint’s own German was nearly without accent, and he was pretty sure the other man wouldn't recognize the accent, because it wasn’t American. He shook his head. “We are coming for the funeral of my grandmother,” he said. “She raised us, and then moved back here. My sister is the one who speaks Russian.” He stroked Nat’s back. “She’s a university student. Very smart.”

“Ah. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Clint tried to keep watching out the far window without being obvious about it. The man was watching them, and not quite as good at not being obvious-- though maybe he was just curious about other people who took the train in the middle of the night.

The man held out a small package. “Would you like some food? I saw you looking.”

Clint reached forward, careful not to dislodge Nat or expose her face, and careful to avoid showing how careful he was being. “Thank you. I can’t get up without disturbing her.” He shook his head. “Poor thing could not sleep with the time changes and the unfamiliar surroundings, and then she cried herself to sleep.”

The man made a sympathetic noise. “How far are you going?”

Clint cursed inwardly. None of the other names on the schedule had been written in Latin letters. “All the way.”

“What, to Vladivostok?”

“Yes. We couldn’t afford the plane. Our uncle got us tickets. He has…” Clint looked away, then back. “‘Connections.’”

The man chuckled. “Traveling in proper Russian style, then.”

Clint smiled weakly.

“Do you know that this is not actually the Transsib? You will have to—“

“Yes, we’re transferring in—“ Clint screwed up his face, then shook his head. “My sister is sitting on the itinerary.”

The man chuckled again. “What is it that you do?”

Clint remorselessly stole the life story of the brother of the woman who’d taught him German. “I run a street sweeper.”

The man’s eyebrows rose again, and he nodded. “Does your sister live with you?”

“She comes home at holidays. Sometimes. Sometimes she has urgent studies on the coast with handsome, well-built fellow students.”

The man laughed. “Well, I wish you safe travels.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the—“ Clint lifted the package.

The man returned to his seat. Clint felt Natasha relax, infinitesimally; no one watching would have noticed. He kept his arm around her, just like a good brother trying to comfort his grieving little sister. He didn’t mind having her so close, either; the train was cold, and she was wearing one of his jackets.

_Why are they traveling in the middle of the night?_ He nudged his quiver to reassure himself, just in case.

Right after the next stop, the bearded man got a phone call that jolted him into action: he muttered something to the rest of his party, and they all sat up and grabbed their stuff. One of them pretty obviously checked a hidden gun. The whole group got off at the stop after that. Only after the train had pulled out of the station did Nat sit up, shrugging off the jacket and giving it back.

“Who was that?”

“He hired me.” 

“Why were they traveling in the middle of the night?”

“He said 'they think they found him' right before they got off.”

He frowned. If that was their target-- but, surely, someone who saw a seven-foot-tall angry green man would be more certain than _they think_.

“Your German’s very good,” she added. “You have a gift for languages.”

He shrugged.

She raised one eyebrow.

“Thanks.”

“Where’d you learn it?”

“Someone I knew, way back.”

“That’s as informative as a bucket of warm spit.”

“You can use spit for DNA testing.”

She gave him an unimpressed look, but didn’t retort. He appreciated that she didn't press the subject.

He thought about her own facility with languages. “Russian’s the only one you didn’t… learn in the Red Room, right?”

She nodded once.

“Is it special to you?”

“No.” She reached for their food bag, broke off another chunk of bread, and passed it over. “You need to learn Russian.”

“Okay.”

She started him off with simple phrases, correcting his pronunciation over and over and _over_ , making him repeat them until she was grudgingly satisfied. She insisted on teaching him proper grammar, too: “I don’t want you sounding like a tourist.”

By the end of two hours, he could have a few highly specific but authentic-sounding conversations. “Good,” she said. “I’ll watch. You sleep.”

He woke after a few hours, aching all _over_ from the plane crash, the fight, and the hard seats. Nat was staring out the window exactly as she had been when he'd fallen asleep. And he had a song stuck in his head. They had the compartment to themselves, so he started to sing, softly, “From Russia with Love.”

Natasha looked over. “I don’t know what that is, but it doesn’t fit with our cover story.”

“It’s the title song to one of the old James Bond movies.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “That man gives spies a bad name.”

Clint nodded. “Yeah. Actually killing people and stealing state secrets is one thing, but a fictional character in a tuxedo is _completely_ unacceptable.”

Her lips twitched. “He’s an ass, and he gets all his victories by being lucky.”

“Mmm.”

“You know a lot of old songs.”

He shrugged. “I like them.”

Natasha let it go at that, but a few minutes later, Clint added, “The ringmaster had an old record player, and loved, loved records. When he wasn’t too drunk, he used to play them late some evenings, after we’d closed up, out of the back of his car. I would sit in the trees and listen. He had a lot of movie scores. Musical soundtracks. That kinda thing.” Clint had really liked those evenings. When he'd built the cabin, he'd hauled up an old record player, that he'd found at a garage sale and painstakingly restored.

“Well, nobody’s flying anywhere for a while, flyboy.”

“‘From Russia with love, I locomote to you…?’”

She gave him a repressive look. He grinned back. “You haven't taught me any swear words yet,” he said. “How am I supposed to communicate on a deep and meaningful level?”

“I'll teach you seven ways to say 'whore.'”

“Fantastic.”

She drilled him in more Russian. In between, he taught her snatches of Farsi. Each station they passed had a roadblock. Twice, nervous-looking soldiers got on and checked their IDs. There was no sign that their target had gotten off the freight train; _was_ he who the soldiers were looking for? Who else could be so dangerous that they would go to all this trouble?

He watched while Nat slept, and then they switched. He woke again when a couple boarded, apparently didn't see the two of them in the shadows, and started humping vigorously on the seat. Clint raised his eyebrows at Nat; she shrugged and looked out the window. He didn’t _care_ , not like that, but it was distracting.

The couple got more enthusiastic and less clothed. His new vocabulary was inadequate for saying “If the train hits a bump you’re going to break his penis.” Or “My eyes, it burns!” Why hadn’t Nat taught him anything _useful_? 

“For God’s sake, use the damned commode,” he said finally. The couple jumped; the woman fell to the floor with a _thud_. Both of them started babbling frantic, embarrassed Russian. He waved it away and pretended to be angry. The couple reappeared over the seats, fully clothed, and shuffled quickly through the car, staring pointedly at the floor. The door at the end of the car slammed… and then he heard the toilet door slam, too. 

He snorted. “What were you thinking, not teaching me how to say ‘fractured penis’?”

For once, Nat looked like she was at a loss for words. “Um,” she said. “Clint. ‘Boner’ is just a figure of speech.”

_No, really? All this time, I thought my dick had retractable bone spurs._ “It’s a ligament injury.”

She looked surprised-- and speculative. Oh, he did _not_ want to think about that. Maybe he should apologize in advance to whatever man she used her newfound knowledge on, except if Nat did-- _that--_ to anyone, he was probably a terrible person. “Are you sure? I’ve never heard of that.”

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure.”

She raised one eyebrow. “From experience?”

“Not mine, but yeah.” 

“Is it… permanent?” The speculative light in her eyes was more pronounced now. 

_Oh God, I'm so sorry_. “Uhhh… treatable. With surgery or something. Looked fine by the time I saw it.” _Wait_ , _I should have phrased that differently—_ But Nat was too distracted to ask questions. He felt a craven sort of relief that it was an injury she’d never be able to inflict on _him._

Unless she got creative.

_Not thinking about this any more._

Either the heater had gone out, or it was just plain inadequate for coping with Siberian winter; by the hours before dawn, the car was frigid. He moved to Natasha's bench, and sat with his back pressed to hers, so at least one part of him could be warm. “Oh God, it's cold as a yeti's nose hairs,” he muttered.

“I’ll defer to your greater knowledge of the subject.”

He huffed quietly in amusement. “Fury sent me to a place like this not long after I brought you in.”

“Punishment detail?”

“Yeah, northwestern Tibet.”

“Sounds fun.”

“You need to get out more.”

“I should take social advice from a man whose idea of a good time is sitting ten feet above the party?”

“Like you disagree.” When he thought about Natasha Romanoff, 'people person' wasn't the first descriptor that came to mind.

They pulled into another station, at a large town-- and by the dim dawn light, saw that the soldiers were dismantling the roadblock. They grabbed their stuff and hurried off the train. They needed a car--

He stopped outside a rundown restaurant, that had an old TV that must have predated the end of the USSR, and frowned at the footage of rising smoke. Something about the skyline was... The camera zoomed in on a battered, shattered building. Through a hole in the damaged wall, he saw lab coats, refrigerators, and a box holding racks of test tubes. There was also a thick door with a big red “4” on it. Before the camera zoomed hurriedly out again, focusing on a grim-looking soldier standing directly in front of the journalist, Clint saw the debris pattern of what was definitely an explosion. The camera panned the area, and he saw signs written in Cyrillic and a large stretch of water, with no opposite shore in site.

So someone had blown up an advanced biology lab... that didn't _necessarily_ mean anything. It could be St. Petersburg, or Lake Baikal. But he reached for the door. It opened before he touched it; an old man brushed past him, scowling, and Clint caught the word “Vladivostok.”

Nat had turned back when he'd stopped. She read the banner, and her expression turned grim. 

“How long ago?”

“Now. It’s live. It's some sort of government facility.”

_Could be a coincidence_. _Or whoever those soldiers were hunting._ He looked again, and frowned. “What’s that, on the outside wall?”

“I don’t see anything.”

Through the window, on the fuzzy TV, through a long lens, the details were hard to make out-- but he didn't miss it. “Someone left bloody handprints on the wall. Someone huge.”

They looked at each other.

Twenty minutes found them with a newly acquired car, heading east on the highway. They got about thirty kilometers down the road. “It was a biology lab,” he said.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Natasha look at him. “Yes. I know.”

“The man we’re following. He’s not normal.”

She was silent. He let her connect the dots he was connecting.

“That bother you?” he asked finally. 

When she answered, several kilometers later, her voice was so soft he had trouble making out the words over the sound of the tires on the snow: “I don’t know.”

“Dead or alive, they told us to bring him in,” he said. “They’re not gonna be recruiting him.”

“I know.”

He let it go there. 

But she didn’t. “Will it bother _you_ , and your _do-gooder_ streak?”

He flicked on the wipers as it started to snow. “Don’t have one, so, no.”

“You’re usually a better liar, Barton.”

And she was usually better at telling truth from lies. But she wasn't impartial, on this subject.

She sketched on the back of a food wrapper. “How does a green seven-foot man who smells like death blend in?”

“Maybe he’s not blending in. He could have help in Russia.” Clint shrugged. “Or he could be hiding in a traveling freak show.”

She shook her head. “The circuses aren't as focused on the absurd, here. More on—“ She stiffened.

Clint took quick stock of their surroundings, but he couldn’t find any reason for alarm. “What?”

“They’re… more focused on storytelling. And art.” Her eyes were wide.

He’d seen her with that expression before-- during a conversation about moose. The pieces clicked.

“Have you ever dreamt about flying?” she asked after a minute.

He kept his voice nonchalant. “Occasionally.”

“I flew.” She sounded wistful.

“You were an acrobat, then?” he asked, when she didn’t continue.

She nodded, still staring at something that wasn’t really in front of her.

“I was an acrobat’s understudy. Only went on a few times— and then later, I was mostly shooting things— but it’s--” _Not something you forget_ , he almost said, but she _had_ forgotten. With help.

She gave herself a shake. “The circus wouldn’t be a good place for him to hide. It’s the middle of winter-- it would be easy for him to get a coat that’s too short, and make _him_ look short, and wrap himself up in scarves.”

“A bulky coat would hide that he was hunching over.” And it wouldn’t be hard to find a coat too short to fit a seven-foot-tall man. “Wish we had some idea what he _wants_. Why he's doin' this.”

Nat sketched a few more drawings on the wrapper. It started to snow. Clint grudgingly slowed down, and then slowed down some more, as the stuff came down more heavily. He muttered under his breath.

“What’s wrong, Hawkeye, can’t handle a little snow flurry?”

“There’s no such thing as a ‘little’ snow flurry in Siberia,” he grumbled. “That’s like having a ‘little’ vodka anywhere in Russia.”

“Let me know if it’s too much for you. I can drive.” Her tone was mock-solicitous. Clint pointedly ignored her, and focused on the road.

When the snow stopped an hour later, he pulled over so they could switch. Nat took the wheel; he slouched down far in the passenger seat, and fell asleep instantly.

*

Nat woke him outside of Vladivostok, and they started looking for the burning building.

The smoke was gone, so it was surprisingly hard to find. Or maybe not so surprising, for a high-level government research facility. They settled down in a small restaurant with a TV; Clint watched the footage and memorized the building's surroundings, while Nat flirted with the waiter and charmed him into bringing out an old city map. From the broadcast, Clint could tell roughly how far the building was from the water, and the surrounding buildings helped him narrow it down more. When they'd both memorized the map, Nat asked for their bill. The waiter scribbled his phone number on the back of it.

They found the building; the entire block was cordoned off, swarming with police and soldiers. Clint found the handprints. They had definitely been made by someone climbing down the outside of the wall, like a spider, and they definitely belonged to someone with freakishly large hands and long arms. They weren't the only markings on the wall, either.

“There's something in Cyrillic,” he said.

“Where?”

“It's in grey. Grey on grey. Right below the third floor.”

She stared, then shook her head. “Can you describe it?”

He took pen and paper from an inner pocket, copied the words, and handed it to her.

“'Victor Modok'?” she read.

“Not ringing any bells.”

“We still don't know that it's him.”

“No, but we can find out.”

“How?”

“He left bloody handprints on the wall.”

“You can track those?” She sounded dubious.

He smirked. “Have a little faith.”

The drips of blood were clearly visible up to the edge of the cordon; past there, they got fainter. Clint followed them another block and across an intersection before it was too faint for him to make out. But traffic was lighter on this side of the road, and ahead, at the edge of a wide parking lot, was a rundown, deserted factory building.

It could be a trap, but it was their best lead so far. “I can make the jump from the next roof over,” Nat said. “Make some noise in the street so he doesn't hear me land.”

They split up and circled around the building. Nat slipped inside the adjacent office building. If he were Modok, and he were expecting them, that would make a great place for an ambush. Clint watched until he saw her safely on the roof, then looked for something to make noise.

A car a block up the street had its stereo going, windows down an inch to let out the driver's cigarette smoke. Clint picked up a handful of gravel, then casually strolled that way. When the driver wasn't looking, he threw a piece of gravel inside, hard. It struck the volume control and ricocheted off, twisting the dial and making the speakers boom. 

The driver turned the radio down and cursed. Clint got out of sight, and circled around to where he could watch the building. His earpiece clicked twice. “Clear,” Natasha said.

If the building were just a dead end, she'd be coming out again instead of inviting him in. He slipped into the building's shadows, jumped up, grabbed a protruding ledge, and swung himself up to the second floor. He dangled and looked through the window, but it was only Nat-- no Modok forcing her to lead him into an ambush. He reached through the loose, rotten frame, undid the catch, and wriggled inside.

She looked up. “I would have opened the door.”

“I wouldn't want life to be boring.” He looked around. The inside was empty of people and furnishings, basically just a giant barn. There was no sign of Modok. “You still think this is the place?”

“There's blood on the inside of the doorknob.”

Clint bent over and studied it. Yes: and if that was a thumbprint, it was a huge one. Either this was a very clever trap, or it was Modok's safe house. He could have moved on already-- but they had no idea where to, so they might as well gamble on him coming back.

Clint stripped off his bulky jacket, and used it to make a convincing silhouette of a man up in the rafters. He propped his pistol against it so the dim light would reflect off of it. Then he took up position in a much better spot on the catwalk, behind a thick wooden support beam.

They waited. He could barely see Nat's outline; anyone who came in, eyes still adjusting from the outside, would never see her.

“I can get the drop on him if he shows up,” Clint said.

“I want to talk to him.”

“What?”

She folded her arms and looked up at him. “I want to know what's going on. Are you convinced, that you have enough of a reason to kill?”

_Damn you, Nat._ This was why it was dangerous to tell her anything personal: you found it coming back at you as a weapon. “He killed all those people in Kiev.”

“So we're told. We don't know what S.H.I.E.L.D.'s source was.”

“He tried to kill _us_ twice.”

“We're assassins. It comes with the territory.”

_Agent Romanoff, I'm concerned with the degree to which you're identifying with the target. Your situations are not analogous._ But that was no less bullshit now than it had been when Fury had first said it to him.

“Okay,” he said. “We'll see if he'll talk.” This was a terrible idea. But he'd risked his mission, his life, and Coulson's life to talk to the target who'd killed three of his coworkers, because his kill order hadn't felt right. He couldn't refuse Nat the same choice.

He was hungry. When was the last time he’d eaten? Within the last twenty-four hours, for sure. He pushed away the deep-down fear that there’d never be food again. After so many years, he'd given up on waiting for that fear to go away.

A _crunch_ of gravel outside--

Clint drew his bow, and had his arrow pointing at the door when it creaked open.

Modok-- Modok?-- was good. He stepped far enough inside to close the door behind him, but kept his hand on the knob, and didn’t leave the protection of the catwalk as he looked around. Clint didn’t think there were a lot of spy jobs for people who were as abysmal at blending as this man was, but you never knew.

Or maybe he’d been a spy before. How old was he? Had he always looked like that? Where the hell had he _come_ from? They'd picked up his trail in Kiev, but--

“I don't often get _visitors_.” The man's voice was low, surprisingly pleasant, with just a bit of rasp, and an unidentifiable accent.

“Victor Modok?”

Natasha stayed in the shadows, but Clint watched the man pinpoint her location without any trouble. His thin lips curled into a sardonic smile. “Yes, that’s me.”

Natasha walked forward a few steps. “Who are you?”

The man— Modok— raised one eyebrow. “I just told you.”

Nat tilted her head and watched him patiently, waiting for him to break the silence. But he didn't. She could have drawn it out longer, but she wanted his cooperation— Clint thought she wanted to come across softly. “Why’d you kill those people?”

“I wanted someone’s attention.” Modok’s mocking smile was strangely attractive. “Looks like I got it.”

“Then why’d you try to kill me?”

“‘Me’? Are you hoping that if you pretend you’re traveling alone, I won’t notice your partner lurking in the rafters up there?”

Nat merely tilted her head again.

Modok chuckled. “Didn’t think you’d be so hard to kill. You took me by surprise. I thought it would just be a nice diversion—“ He breathed in sharply, then shook his head. “There’s just _something_ about the snap of a neck.”

Modok was obviously testing her, trying to throw her off her game, but Clint knew she’d seen far worse. He’d heard her _screaming_ about 'far worse.' 

“You have my attention.” Nat's voice was as calm as if they were discussing afternoon tea. Not that Clint had ever heard her discuss afternoon tea. “What do you want it for?”

Modok’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What if... I want to come in?”

It wasn’t that Clint didn’t trust Nat. He trusted her with his life-- but. Everyone had a vulnerability. For Clint, it was people hurting children. For Nat, was it people trying to get away from their makers?

“Have you been trying to get away from someone?” Her voice was calm, smooth.

He laughed. “You could say that.”

“Who?”

“Oh, I can’t say _that_.”

“If I carry your request back to anybody, I need to know who, and they need to know what they’re getting themselves into.”

This time the rasp of Modok’s laugh made Clint think of pneumonia. He stared at the places where Nat's bullets had hit, but Modok had a long coat on, and Clint couldn’t see anything. The arrow was gone from his arm, but the arrowhead could still be there. “They’ll know exactly what they’re getting themselves into. They’ve done it before, haven’t they?”

“They brought someone like you in from the cold?”

“No. They _made_ me.” 

“You want to go back to your creators?” There was no catch or hesitation in Nat's voice at all. That was why she was possibly the best spy the world had ever seen.

“What if... I said I did, and I want another?”

“Another…”

Modok waved his hand impatiently. “You think I was always like this? No. They _made_ me, and then they turned me out, because I wasn’t right—“ His fist clenched. “I want another. Someone who understands.”

Fear-revulsion-sorrow-pity clenched Clint’s gut in a knot. Fear at— at the link between this and Nat; revulsion, at what Modok was saying, what he _wanted_ ; sorrow and pity at what had been done to him. They had no evidence that Modok was telling the truth— he’d come from _somewhere_ unnaturally, sure, but this could be a play on Nat’s sympathies. The Black Widow wasn’t unknown in the underworld, and someone else could’ve figured out her history like Clint had—

“How were you made?” Nat asked.

“I was a man, once.” Modok glanced down at his body, then shook his head. “No, I wasn’t. But this body, this _shell_ , belonged to a man, once. John, John…” He shook his head again. “They ripped him out, made his body better, and then put me in. They gave him a lovely memorial service. No body. I watched from the back. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I was. I don’t know what they told his wife.”

The revulsion intensified. Clint’d seen a lot of messed-up shit, but this might take the cake. They’d done that to a man, and Modok had lived— been born?— and now he wanted them to do it _again_.

“So you’re not John,” Nat said.

Modok sneered. “Him, no. He was weak. I remember—“ He sucked in a breath, and frowned. “I remember watching as they killed him. He screamed. He begged. He should have murdered them all, but he didn’t.”

“What will you do, if they make another like you?”

“Leave. Go away. They made it so that no one would ever look at me without flinching—!” His fist clenched in a spasm. “I wouldn’t be lonely, with another person like me. We could hide away somewhere. I’m hardy. There are plenty of places humans can’t survive. We only need one of them.”

“What if the other one didn’t like you?”

“Then I’d kill him.” Modok’s face contorted in rage. “And eat him. Rip him limb from limb so that no one could use him again the way they used me.”

“If this really is what you want, if I tell them for you,” Nat said, “if I take this back to them, and they say no— then what?”

He sneered. “Then I’ll do what they made me to do.”

“What did they make you to do?”

“Kill.” He stepped towards Nat. “They designed me to kill, only kill. Anger is the basest emotion, they said, the easiest to manipulate, but they went wrong, they got something more complex. They got _me_. They threw me out, they hoped I'd die-- but they'd made me too well.”

Nat stood her ground. “And if you really want this, who should I take the message to?”

“Well,” Modok said, “most of them are in hell.” He grabbed a gun from a hidden holster, and fired up at Clint. The bullet missed Clint so closely he felt the breeze. He loosed the arrow-- ducked-- grabbed another, rolled away, nocked it-- popped up over the edge of the balcony-- Nat vanished into the shadows, shooting Modok squarely in the torso-- Modok grunted, fell, and sent a hail of bullets upwards. But not at Clint.

Clint released the arrow— then heard, felt, the groaning of the wood as the rotten, bullet-ridden beam gave way. He grabbed another arrow as he fell-- Modok bounded forward into the darkness-- _Nat!_ \-- Clint slammed into the ground and lost his grip-- out of instinct, he nocked, shot, and grabbed another arrow--

Modok growled: “Live long enough to tell them I will do the same to everyone who comes after me. And then die, worms.”

Clint lost a minute or two, and then came back to his senses. Someone was groaning. Good, Nat was conscious— 

No, that was his own voice.

His hand closed around the arrow shaft. He nocked the arrow and sat up, turning to cover the whole building. Modok was gone. Clint stared down every shadow until he was sure, and Nat—

“Nat!” He almost pitched onto his face in his hurry to her side. She was sprawled, limp, on the ground, limbs at odd angles. _Oh God, Nat. Please. Please._ Covering her was his job, and he'd failed. There were livid red marks on her throat, fingerprints from a freakishly large hand. _Please._ He fell to his knees and dropped his bow, feeling for a pulse in her neck. With his other hand, he checked her neck, spine, and head to make sure they were intact. They felt fine— he checked her shoulder— her skin was warm, and her shoulder wasn’t injured, she’d just fallen funny—

He felt her blood beating under his fingertips, and sagged with relief. _One day it might be for real._ If he didn't care so much, it wouldn't be so terrifying--

Flee now, existential crises about the nature of his line of work later. Someone would have heard the shots. He balanced Nat against his shoulder, zipped his quiver, collapsed his bow, and shoved it up his sleeve. Then he got them outside and concentrated on putting as much distance as possible between them and the building. He got some funny looks, and knew they were conspicuous. He didn’t care; he had to sacrifice invisibility for distance right now.

They made it to the relative cover of a back alley. Someone was going to call the police, soon, if they hadn’t already, because it looked like he was kidnapping Natasha. He broke into and hotwired the first likely car he saw. Getting the door open, while juggling Natasha _and_ his weapons _and_ not dropping either, was one of his better moments. He buckled her into the passenger seat, then got the hell out of there. He found the nearest highway and forced himself to keep with the flow of traffic.

Natasha was worryingly still and silent. Clint hoped it was only that Modok had choked her out. But her heart was beating; she was breathing. If Modok'd strangled her long enough to cause brain damage, they wouldn’t know until she woke up. 

He wouldn’t, couldn't, worry about that now. 

He couldn’t risk staying with the car too long, either. If they were stopped-- Nat was unconscious in the passenger seat, suspicious fingerprints around her neck, and they were both heavily armed. He pulled off into a likely-looking neighborhood, hoping that none of the signs he couldn’t read said “HOME TO THE HIGHEST CONCENTRATION OF FSB OFFICERS IN THE CITY,” and cruised until he found a seedy hotel with walkup rooms. The rudimentary Russian Nat had insisted on teaching him-- thank God-- got him a room without attracting suspicion. He carried her inside, and propped her in the corner where she wouldn’t be immediately visible to someone breaking down the door. He sketched a small and terrible bird on a scrap of paper, and folded her fingers around it. If she woke up disoriented and panicked, she’d know he’d be back.

He ditched the car far away and caught a bus back, chilled and numb from the winter day. He scanned the area around the hotel-- nothing out of place-- he unlocked the door, opened it just far enough to squeeze inside--

The _click_ of a gun being safetied was the most welcome thing he'd ever heard. “Lights,” he warned her— he hoped fervently it _was_ her, and not a trap-- and drew his own gun before he flicked the switch.

Nat lowered her gun. She was still propped in the corner, and very pale, but she was _awake_. Clint locked the door, drew the shades, and wedged a chair under the handle for good measure. “How d’you feel?”

“I’ve been better.” She got unsteadily to her feet, then sat on the bed. “You?”

He waved that away, opening and closing his hands, and sat beside her; soreness wasn’t anything to mention. “Fine. Nat— I don’t know how he knew I was there—“

She, in turn, waved away the beginnings of his apology. “I think he smelled you.”

“ _Smelled_ me?” Clint sniffed his sleeve. 

The corner of her mouth twitched. It was a weak, but welcome, smile. “I saw him sniffing. His nostrils are huge. He must have a nose like a dog. I think he could tell you weren’t above him by the direction of your scent.”

“Well, fuck,” Clint sighed. 

“What's wrong with your hands?”

He looked down. “Nothing.” He'd fallen on them, then curled them in on themselves for protection from the biting cold, and now they were cramped. He didn't like that. He needed his hands to shoot.

“Give me your hands, Clint.”

_Let me tell you about the word 'please,' Natasha._ He didn't have her history, but he had _his_ , and he didn't like people deciding to do things with-- _to_ \-- his body. But he didn't say anything-- because if there was anyone who already understood that, it was her. He didn't think she was being high-handed-- _hah_ \-- for the hell of it, and he didn't think her brusque casualness was genuine.

He put his hand in her outstretched fingers. She tugged off his glove and pressed her thumbs into his palm, rubbing firmly. It kind of tickled, but he was _never, ever_ going to tell her that. Her fingers were warm; he felt the circulation returning to his own fingers. He watched her, and satisfied himself that if she was hiding any injuries, they weren't major.

“Other hand.”

The dull ache that had accompanied the numbness was receding, too. He remembered another cold night, and another set of numb limbs. “Is this the part where I ask you to marry me?”

She raised an eyebrow, but her fingers didn't stop. “You know, I have my code name for a reason.”

He shrugged. “I figured it was from someone who'd never _seen_ a spider, or else you have a really unfortunate violin tattoo on your stomach.”

She gave him a look that would have chilled a more cautious man's blood. He smiled pleasantly back.

That apparently fell into the 'no comment' category, so he looked down, and saw her other gun on the bedspread. No, it was— “Where’d you get that? Where’s yours?”

Her smile was predatory. “We grappled. I came away with his gun, he got mine.”

“Fingerprints.”

She nodded. Then she stopped smiling. “That means he has mine, too. We’re thinking he's out in the cold, but that could be a ruse. Everything he said could have been a ruse to bait us.”

“I wiped my gun before I wedged it up there, but they could recover something from the jacket. And-- we were probably seen.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Are you okay to--”

“I'm _fine_.”

Clint left the key on the table, and wiped everything they'd touched. Nat turned her collar up to hide the marks on her neck. He checked his bow up his sleeve. “Hey, ask me what I’ve got up my sleeve.”

Nat gave him a flat look. He smirked back.

They caught a bus to a little store, then another to another seedy suburb. This time Nat rented the room, in case anyone had put an alert out on Clint’s face. She dumped the contents of the bag on the bed: two boxes of hair dye, baby powder, makeup, a makeup brush, tape, and black cardstock. “You or me first?”

“What?”

She pointed at the hair dye.

He grimaced. “You first.”

She went into the small, grimy bathroom. He took the gloves from the other box of hair dye and dusted the pistol for prints, picking them up on the tape. He transferred the tape to the cardstock, took pictures with his phone, and sent them off to S.H.I.E.L.D., taking the chance that they would make it to the nearest secure satellite without interception by the FSB.

Nat came out, hair newly dark and bruises hidden under makeup and gestured to the bathroom. He picked up the box, and looked at the directions. They were in Cyrillic.

“You wanna give me the cliff notes?”

“You’ve never dyed your hair before?”

Clint’s lips twisted. “When I was thirteen, my brother’d put purple streaks in my hair with Kool-Aid, to go with my costume.”

Nat’s mouth opened. Then she closed it again, as if she didn’t know what to say. 

Clint gestured at his short-cropped hair. “Was a lot longer then. Started keepin’ it short after a lice outbreak the first month I, I worked for the mercs.”

“Are there… _pictures_?” Nat’s voice was just a little choked.

“No.” He smiled cheerfully.

She gave him the rundown. It was messy and it smelled funny, but he managed it without major catastrophe. The end result was dark enough to look similar to Nat’s, making their sibling cover more convincing, but not so dark that it looked unnatural on him.

When he got out, Nat handed him the phone. The prints had already come back. They matched those of John Barrington, an MI-5 officer who’d gone missing a year before. Clint scrolled down and looked at the technical notes: the prints were a match, but the match had been weirdly distorted… like the skin had been _stretched_. He felt sick.

“This ain’t much help.” They still didn’t know where Modok was going, or who’d made him. They’d lost his trail again, and they couldn’t count on him letting them pick it up again. 

“Why Vladivostok?”

Clint shrugged. “The guy’s kinda crazy.”

“Yes. But you don’t survive that long, as someone else’s creation, without being wily.”

Clint tilted his head, conceding the point. “It’s the end of the line. It has the lab, it’s on the edge of the continent.”

“I looked at the lab while we were casing the area. I didn’t see a surgical theater—“ The slightest flicker on her face showed what she thought about that— “and the equipment looked like more microbiological than…”

“Artificial intelligence and body swapping?”

Nat nodded.

“So the lab was just a trap for us, and he's fleeing?”

“A trap, or-- venting. He’s running from something. Or _to_ something. But he's almost out of railroad, and a plane would be too conspicuous.”

“What boats leave out of this port?”

“Ferries to Japan, China, South Korea, and farther south.”

“He could _steal_ a boat, or he could— what did you mean, almost?”

“There’s a line that goes to North Korea.”

“Oh.” _Top of the list of vacation spots I never want to visit._ He ran his hands through his hair. “Where did he _come_ from? Did they steal someone _else’s_ brain and stick it in? That seems--” _Pretty damned difficult_. Even just to match cranium sizes.

“No,” Nat said. “You can’t. Well—“ She made a self-deprecating gesture. _Can’t_ didn't mean much when their target should have been impossible himself. “If you wanted to make something like Modok, that would be an unnecessarily difficult way to do it.”

“So they, what, cooked him up in a computer and poured him in?”

“I… think so, yes.” Nat looked troubled, and rubbed the marks on her neck. “Did you hear his accent?”

“I couldn’t place it.”

“There was a trace of American, and of British English; more eastern European than anything else. But his English had an East Asian accent. Japanese, I think.”

Clint frowned, and his eyes narrowed. “More eastern European than anything else. He surfaced near Kiev, first. And killed those people…” He reached for his phone.

“You have something?”

Did Modok talk like the people who'd made him? “I want to see if any American or English, oh, say, neurologists, have recently been found dead.” He searched for a minute or two. “Huh.” He passed her the phone. 

Her eyebrows went up. “Nice.”

“Thanks.”

“So he sounds American, and a famous American physiologist was found floating in the Danube last month, a suspected overdose. He sounds English, and a computer scientist from Liverpool disappeared in Kiev, with a ransom note from the local mafia.” She started tapping. After a few minutes, she smiled with satisfaction. “I’ll see your discovery, and raise you the names of the likely Japanese collaborator.” She passed back the phone. He looked at the list of papers. It wasn’t long: the physiologist and the computer scientist had both published papers with a lot of people, but there was only one Japanese scientist that overlapped both the American and the Englishman. “What do scientists like better than anything else? Showing off their big brains.”

Clint mock-saluted her with the phone. “Nagasaki.”

“And there’s a ferry that leaves tonight and lands nearby.” 

“Then let's go.”

They wiped the room and left. An hour later they were in a parking garage near the airport. _They_ had the advantage of not being seven feet tall and too conspicuously grey-green to take a plane. They split up: Nat went to smuggle their weapons onto a cargo plane to Nagasaki, and Clint bought two roundtrip tickets, with the return a week from now. He hoped the roundtrip would make his paying in cash at the last minute less suspicious. He wanted to spin some story about how his sister had always wanted to see Japan, and now might be their only chance since the fare was so expensive from Europe, but his Russian wasn’t good enough. So he just smiled charmingly at the scowling clerk, and tried to look innocent. 

When Nat got back, they went through security. She went to get food, and--

_Fuck!_

It was the Russian official from the train— the one who had hired Nat. And there they were, about to get on a plane to Japan, with his and Nat's hair both a different color. They couldn’t have screamed _spies_ more loudly if they’d used neon body paint. He sank down in the nearest chair, held his paper up-- the _right_ way up-- and tore a piece off. He crumpled it, made sure no one was looking, and threw it. It hit Natasha's nose. She jumped, looked around at him-- and saw the man.

He didn't even see her disappear, but he breathed a little more easily when she was gone. But the man was drifting in Clint’s direction. He looked at the paper, then away, not apparently interested. Clint relaxed-- and the man turned and walked straight to him. 

“It _is_ you,” he said pleasantly, in German. “The street sweeper from Germany. I wondered if that was you, with new hair, but I couldn’t think what you might be doing here.”

Clint let himself jump as guiltily as he felt. “Oh my God,” he muttered under his breath, also in German. “Did _they_ send you? Are they _here?_ ” He scanned the terminal.

The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He sat down in the opposite seat. “Is _who_ here?”

“My family.” Reassuring himself that his ‘family’ wasn’t anywhere in sight, Clint relaxed.

“Your… _Russian_ family?”

“Yes.” Clint looked the man up and down, and obviously noticed his briefcase. “Oh-- oh, you’re here on _business_.” He relaxed.

The man frowned. “Where is your sister?”

“She is doing some traveling on her own, before we go back.”

“And you are…?” The man raised his eyebrows with mocking politeness. “Also doing some ‘traveling on your own’?”

Clint scratched the back of his neck. “I am... going to see a friend, in Japan.”

“A friend,” the man repeated.

“A _friend_.”

The light dawned. “Ah…” His face was unreadable.

“My sister knows,” Clint babbled on, “but our family, our Russian family— no.” He shook his head. “They do not think of that here like they do in--. They cannot know.” Oh God, this was a terrible idea. 

The man leaned back. “How did you meet your Japanese friend?”

“The Internet.”

The man smirked wryly. “Oh yes, of course.”

Clint scratched the back of his neck again, trying to look like he was trying not to look guilty. He was intensely curious what the other man was doing in Vladivostok, but the nervous street sweeper wouldn't ask, about that, or about the prominent bruises the man had gotten on his face and neck since the last time Clint had seen him. It looked like he'd been pistol-whipped.

Finally the man said, “It is better that you are going to Japan than he is coming here. But you should be careful.” He clapped Clint on the shoulder. “Have a safe trip. And enjoy your return to Germany, which I’m sure will follow shortly.”

“Yes.”

The man nodded once, and wandered off, apparently satisfied that he’d once again slotted Clint into a sensible place in the world.

Clint felt like sweating. It fit with his impromptu cover story, so he let himself look nervous. _That could have gone worse_.

The plane arrived. By standing behind a woman with a wide stroller, he managed to watch most of the other passengers board. He didn't see Nat or the Russian man, but when he got on board, she was already there, five rows ahead of him. He relaxed once the jetway door was closed. The flight was fine, and they made their connection to Nagasaki. He even slept a bit on the second leg.

One minor flaw in their plan was that he didn't speak or read Japanese. _What is this, a systematic tour of all the places where I don't speak the language_? Nat did, but they were still obviously out of place. They got back their weapons, no one the wiser, and took a taxi to the university address of the scientist they were tracking. It was late, but--

It turned out to be a good hunch. The lights were still on in the lab. “I guess mad scientists never sleep.”

“You have to be a little crazy to create a monster.” Nat didn’t take her eyes off the woman.

“Nat.”

He waited until she looked up.

“Are you okay with this?”

“With what?”

He gave her the level look she deserved for trying to pull that one over on him.

She looked away, faintly embarrassed. “I’m… not sure.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Do I ever want to talk about it?”

He shrugged. “Figured I’d offer.”

Her eyes glinted. “I wonder what else the good doctor has made. _Who_ else.”

This mission was going to be significantly more difficult if he had to worry about his partner shooting the people they’d agreed to protect. Then he had an unpleasant thought. “Hey. Modok, he wants a friend, right?”

Nat grimaced.

“But, we _thought_ he was killin' all the people who know how to-- make-- one.”

She looked up, eyes widening. Then she looked back at the doctor. 

Clint followed her gaze. “So,” he murmured. “Who’re you working for, Doc?”

The scientist kept working. Nat curled up in the deep cover of the bushes below the tree. He yawned—

_Fuck._ He shook out his bow and nocked an arrow. “Nat!”

She sat up immediately. “How’d he get here so fast?” It was an academic question; she was already racing for the building.

Clint stayed where he was, on high ground. His first arrow shattered the glass— Modok ducked, too fast— the scientist screamed, looked around— and saw the man looming silently over her. At least she was aware now. She dove under the bench— _no, bad, cornered!_ — Clint shot again. This arrow took Modok in the shoulder. He screamed— and then snarled as the acid started to work.

It was a shitty thing to do to a living creature. Clint was aware. The world was fucked up.

Modok stumbled backwards, grabbing the arrow— if he just got far enough back from the woman, Clint could blow him up— but he bolted through the door before Clint could make the shot.

Fuck. Natasha had just run in there— if he caught her again—

Clint sprinted across the grass, ignoring the strange looks and everything but the door. He bypassed the elevator and took the stairs three at a time— above him, he heard shots— they echoed deafeningly in the stairwell— which meant—

He planted his feet on the landing, grabbing an arrow and nocking it in one swift stroke, and didn’t flinch when Modok barreled into view. He shot-- 

— Modok plucked it out of the air.

Another arrow, reload, Modok had bounded down the stairs in one great leap— a blur of black at the top of the stairs— Nat shot Modok’s shoulder, but he didn’t stop— he swatted at Clint— old, old reflexes kicked in, and Clint leapt straight up, got purchase on Modok’s shoulder, and _flipped_ over, landing behind him before he could react. The man roared, planted the arrow on the landing, and bounded on down the stairs. Clint twisted over the railing, took the eight-foot-drop, and dove after him. Modok roared again in surprise and swatted at him— 

It was equal parts self-preservation and boldness, because Clint knew something he didn’t, which was that the arrow was on an auto-timer. Between the monster that would probably kill him and the explosion that would definitely kill him, it was an easy choice. “GET BACK!” he yelled, hoped like hell that Nat heard and understood— and dove over the railing again—

The arrow blew up. The force blew Modok down the stairs, past Clint. He reached for Clint’s neck on his way past, and got purchase for a sickening moment— Clint grabbed a knife and thrust it deep into his hand— Modok let go. But he left Clint off-balance, and the broken concrete shifted unsteadily— he fell into a heap on the landing--

Someone grabbed his neck. He panicked— _need a knife_ — “Dammit, Clint,” he heard whispered—

He opened his eyes. “Aw, didn’t know you cared,” he said with a sloppy grin. The look on Nat’s face— just for a second, half a second, so fast he might have imagined it— wiped the end of the grin off his face real quick. 

_Least I’m not the only one_.

“You okay?” He let her help him up.

“Yes. I know what it means when you run away from one of your own arrows without even taking the time to shoot again.”

“Bully for you.” He staggered to his feet and checked the stairwell: the lower levels looked intact, but emergency services would be there in minutes, if not seconds.

When they got to the bottom, Modok was sprinting across the grass at speeds no human could manage, clutching a white plastic bottle in one hand. Clint looked around— oh, convenient. Campus security pulled up, tires squealing with the sudden stop. He caught Nat’s eye; they sprinted for the car. Before the officers realized what was happening, Clint grabbed one, dragging him out of the car; Nat shoved the others out onto the grass. They slammed the doors. Clint gunned it.

He couldn’t go nearly as fast as he wanted, on narrow roads not really built for cars, and Modok kept a steady lead up ahead. They caught up with him on the edge of campus; Clint realized, feeling sick, that he could run him down and pin him to the side of a building. Modok was practically indestructible, and they were running out of options to keep him from killing other people—

– then Modok leapt eight feet in the air and kept going on the roofs.

Nat played spotter as Clint swerved through the Nagasaki streets. This was so far from ‘inconspicuous,’ it was hilarious. How the hell was this guy going so fast on the roofs? _Where_ was he going? Was he running blind? Or leading them into an ambush?

After scraping off both side mirrors, Clint had to stop or risk knocking down the walls. They bailed out and used the top of the car as an easy step to the roofs. Modok was still in sight, but he had the advantage now— and before Clint could put a couple of arrows in his legs, he jumped back to ground level.

They followed grimly. Clint’s breathing was ragged and harsh in his ears. They were getting closer to the water. Were there ferries at this time of night? Modok pulled farther and farther ahead of them until they came to an intersection and didn’t see him either way.

Clint hesitated— if they split up, Modok was more than a match for either of them—

— off to their right, a woman screamed shrilly.

They sprinted that way, ducked around a building, and came around the front just as Modok climbed out the front window. No time to stop to see if anyone was dead inside— the water was in sight— Modok ate up the concrete, stretching out his lead, and skidded between the narrow buildings by the docks. They lost sight of him. Clint swore, jumped up, grabbed the nearest roof edge— and it came off in his hands, dumping him on his butt. 

He ignored the pain. “Here!” Nat stepped lightly in his hands and then on his shoulder, leaping onto a sturdier part of the roof. 

“Left!” she called. Clint nearly tipped forward as he took off again. Above, Nat called out directions until she lost him, too. But they were almost out of land, it wouldn't be hard—

Clint burst onto the docks and nearly tripped over the kid’s body. Out on the water, Modok gunned a fishing boat and waved cheerfully. Clint fell to his knees and felt for a pulse. Nothing. His neck was broken. He couldn’t have been more than ten.

Nat jumped down behind him. “Kid must have tried to stop him taking the boat.” Her voice was clipped.

Clint didn't think she was _wrong_ , but he knew Modok could have brushed the kid aside as easily as a fly. Up ahead, he could see Modok laughing now. For a moment, he regretted the sharp eyes that let him make out that detail.

“We need a boat.” Nat hesitated, then closed the boy’s staring eyes, picked up his body, and laid him on some rough cloth near the edge of the dock. “And we need to get out of here before we get arrested for this kid’s death.”

_We need an advantage_. Clint thought his blood might freeze in his veins. He drew and nocked an arrow, and aimed, trying to think straight— was this revenge, or practicality— or both— did it matter?--

Modok saw him, and gestured to the arrows already in his body with a mocking sweep of his hand. His right shoulder was covered in white powder-- a neutralizing agent from the labs? He was still laughing.

Clint inhaled, the rest of his body perfectly still. Modok’s night vision wasn’t good enough for him to see where Clint was aiming.

Clint exhaled and took the shot. The shaft flew true, and buried itself in Modok’s right eye. His howl of anguish carried clearly over the water. Clint nocked another arrow, but Modok threw himself into the bottom of the boat, protecting all his vulnerable body parts.

Clint lowered his bow. Nat was untying another boat, and looking up at him with an expression he'd never seen her direct at _him_ before. He recognized it, though. It was how he'd felt every time he wondered whether she’d be reliable on this mission.

Finally she shrugged. “Let’s go.” She hotwired the boat. He jumped in. “Where’s he going?”

Clint squinted into the mist. “There’s a big island up ahead.”

“Well, he’s heading right for it.” Modok was going at what was probably the boat’s top speed.

Whether or not it was, it was equal to _their_ boat’s top speed. Clint concentrated on steering a straight course through the cold, choppy water, and tried not to think. About anything. The weather was rough, and keeping them going straight took most of his concentration. He was thankful for that.

“More than one island,” he said after a while. Modok was heading left of them all. Out to open sea? They followed as Modok passed several islands. Clint squinted. “There’s still another up ahead. Lots of buildings.” But nothing seemed to be moving on it. Because they were too far away? Or because it was night? There was something _off_ about it.

They weren’t the only ones who’d noticed Modok. A fast coast guard ship zoomed into view, one of the crew shouting through a bullhorn. Clint hung back, hoping to escape notice for a few more minutes. Modok pulled the wheel over hard and headed straight for what Clint could barely distinguish as the island’s little harbor. But he wasn't going to reach it before the coast guard reached him.

A tiny cigarette boat shot out of the harbor, on a collision course with the larger coast guard ship. The coast guard ship hoved around to get out of the way and pursue. They heard the _crack_ of rifle fire. Whoever was on the go-fast returned fire, the crew of the coast guard ship ducked, and no one noticed when Modok steered his boat through the choppy water past the sea wall.

“Smugglers. Fun.” Clint had to slow down as they got closer, even though he wanted to get out of sight; the waves were breaking hard against the sea wall, and the current was nasty. “What’s the primary cargo around here, d’you know?”

“People.”

He looked over at Nat; her face was set.

“But with a boat like that, probably drugs. I’d guess Ecstasy.”

By the time they made it behind the sea wall, Modok had already abandoned his boat and scrambled out of sight. There was no sign of smugglers. Clint cut the power and let them drift, looking around for any sign of their quarry. 

_This is weird_. The island was full of huge ruins, old, massive block buildings. “You got any idea what this place is?” He could think of half a dozen groups who would love to make a base on a place like this.

Nat looked around. “I’ve heard of it. It used to be a coal mine. It was deserted in the 70s.”

An island full of unstable, decaying ruins, and Modok could be anywhere in there.

“Do you have any tranq arrows?”

He stared. “You want to bring him in alive.”

She looked away. “I want to talk.”

“You’ve-- you've _talked_.” His fists clenched. Consciously, he unclenched them. “You've talked, and he nearly killed us both.”

“I don’t think he chose this any more than I chose my life.”

He rested his hands on the dashboard, and forced himself to stay calm, to speak coherently and not spit snarls. “Did you ever kill a kid just for fun?” he demanded.

“No. But they could have made me that way.”

A short silence turned into a longer one. “I have one left. It didn’t slow him down last time.” He felt in his pocket for his binoculars, and stared hard at the surrounding buildings. They were sitting ducks out here if Modok decided to shoot at them. But if they left the boat, they’d have no way of preventing him from making another run for it. And he could be lurking anywhere in the dark. “What if we just maroon him here? Scuttle one boat, take the other back. Or take ‘em both back.”

“He could swim.”

“It’s nearly ten miles.”

“He could kill the smugglers and take their boat.”

Clint shrugged, acknowledging her point. 

“Why so _kind_ suddenly, Clint?”

“Pragmatic.” Bringing Modok in alive wasn’t going to happen, and they’d had a hell of a time trying to kill him so far. And it wasn’t kindness, really; Clint didn’t know what grew on this island but he didn't think there was much to eat. Or drink. Or treat wounds with.

“I have an idea.” She gestured for Clint to lean close. Sound carried, and Modok could be anywhere.

They landed the boat next to Modok’s and headed for the highest point of the island, a little rise. With no infrared goggles, they had to make do with flashlights and his eyesight. The island was maybe a five minute walk on a good day, but they checked every patch of darkness for Modok before they moved forward. They had a deadline: sooner or later, the smugglers would come back or the coast guard would show up. Modok could easily kill either group and steal their boat.

The stillness of the place was unnerving, broken only by an occasional cricket chirp. They were surrounded by all the signs of humanity except actual people. Their feet crunched through rubble, decayed furniture, toys, endless bits of wood. Up ahead—

“Hawkeye.”

He turned at Nat’s soft word, and followed the direction she was pointing. Signs of habitation, but not Modok, so it had to be—

He whistled softly. “That’s a _lot_ of bullets.”

“Maybe it wasn’t Ecstasy after all,” she agreed as they looked through the low doorway. There was no way the smugglers would have abandoned this small fortune in arms and ammunition. They'd be coming back as soon as they could--

The _rumble_ was the only warning he got. He dove out of the way of several tons of rock debris, arms over his head and neck. _You've got to be kidding me, does this guy have a deconstruction fetish?_ He stumbled to his feet and got under cover--

The rubble had fallen directly between the two of them, blocking the alley. “Nat?” he called softly.

No response. She was either on the other side… or under it.

He listened for a little bit. No sound of anything except the echoes still ringing in his ears. “Nat?” he tried again. He was afraid that he’d get a response, hear that she was in bad shape, and have to sit here, helpless, and listen to her… struggle. _Call a spade a spade: listen to her die._

But there was eerie silence from beyond the rocks.

He had to assume she was dead or out of commission-- something felt strange, in his chest, but he'd think about that later-- and Modok was left to him. If Clint could just get to high ground, he could find him. No matter where he was hiding.

The rock had fallen just to the right of the room hiding the cache. He took two more guns and ammo to fit them; there was no telling how long he'd have to play cat and mouse with Modok. _Who's the cat here?_ Then he started to climb, watching every shadow for even a flicker out of place. Modok was faster, stronger, and meaner than he was, but he couldn't see better. Especially not any more.

He had to move excruciatingly slowly. It took a long time to get to the top of a tall, ruined tower. He sat for a long time, didn't see anything, and didn't hear anything over the waves. He started to shiver. Besides the water, everything he could see was still--

Not quite. Through a ruined building on the other side of the island, he saw shadows flickering. _Damn it_. He couldn't shoot-- it could be Nat. He couldn't hear anything, because of the water. And if he left the high ground, he wouldn't be able to see anything. At least here, he would see Modok coming-- and if Nat were dead, he needed every advantage he could get.

That funny ache in his chest was back. He still wasn't going to think about it.

The flickering stopped. He flexed his fingers, one hand at a time, to keep them from stiffening. Nat had-- _Nat, if you're dead_ \-- 'I'll kill you' wasn't funny. 

A _thump_ behind him—

He whirled, and _didn’t_ shoot her. Her eyes were wide, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. 

“You’re not dead.” _Thank God_. The relief was soft and _close_ and he didn't care.

She shook her head. “I blacked out for a few minutes. I woke up, couldn’t hear you, and chased Modok on the other side of the island.

“You find him?”

“Yes.” She wiped blood from her face. “It was an… involved chase. I didn’t catch up to him. You?”

“Jumped forward, didn’t get squished, went up and tried to shoot him.” He frowned. “Modok’s not very _good_ at trying to kill us.” He'd almost succeeded, several times, but someone like him should have been able to do better than _almost_.

“Yes. I had noticed that.”

“Suicide by cop?” And if so, should they oblige him?

Nat frowned deeply, too. “I don’t know.”

“What now?”

They stayed where they were. Even if Modok could scale the tower, they’d see him coming— and they could watch the boats. Clint took some rope and tied it around a sturdy-looking strut so they could make a quick descent if they had to. Then they crouched down to be less visible. “Alive’s looking like not an option, Nat, if we want to live too.”

“Yes. I... know.”

“He also seems to be bullet proof.”

Nat looked up. “I got a look at his eye. It’s healing.”

Clint couldn’t— didn’t want to— imagine what would have happened if Modok’d tried to take the shaft out— didn’t want to imagine _anything_ about it, except he had to, because he’d done it. “ _Around_ the shaft?”

Nat ran her tongue over her lower lip. “Yeah.”

_Good God._

“When I was running through the island, I found a place that might help us.”

He nodded for her to continue. They kept their voices down, because Modok could be anywhere.

“You’re okay to play bait?” he asked.

She nodded once. “Do you want the directions agai—“

The tower shook.

_Fuck!_ There must be a basement, or a tunnel, or— didn’t matter now. The vibrations got closer and more intense— Modok must be _running_ up the side of the tower— Clint stood and nocked an arrow, looking over the side— he recoiled as Modok snarled at him, much closer than Clint had expected— he shot— _“Go!”_ he yelled. In his peripheral vision he saw Nat grab the rope and dive off the side. Then Modok’s hands grabbed the top of the tower. Clint couldn’t miss at this range— he pinned one of Modok's hands to the concrete, the force driving the arrowhead deep into the roof— Modok screamed, horribly, and reached up to snap the shaft, but his fingers slipped in his own blood— Clint didn’t wait to see any more. He grabbed the rope, slid down, and ran for his life.

At least Nat was already out of sight. He sprinted over the dark piles of broken concrete separated by grass, risking the possibility of a broken ankle over the certainty of death if Modok caught him here in the open. Modok broke free and _roared_ when Clint was twenty feet from the nearest building, landing with a heavy _thud_. Clint threw himself forward and reached shelter as heavy footfalls sounded closer and closer behind him. Where— he skidded to his right, breath coming roughly, and took the narrow stairs three at a time. The building had been built more than fifty years ago for people who were shorter, then, and he didn’t think Modok could fit in the stairs. If they went all the way up— but Modok’d have no trouble scaling the outside of the building. So Clint took a hard left on the fourth floor and sprinted across the decaying walkway to the next building. It crumbled under his feet; he leapt forward to avoid a forty-foot fall. When he looked back, half the bridge was missing. But the walkways went all the way up— Modok could just take another one--

He sprinted across the next building, plunged ankle-deep in a pile of wood, lost his balance, and fell. By the time he recovered, Modok was across the walkway. Clint grabbed an arrow, nocked it, shot it across the next gap, and swung free into space, playing out only a little rope to keep his arc short. Modok roared in frustration, but he was already climbing down the outside of the building. And that was Clint’s only rope arrowhead— he couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle, not without time he didn't have. He kept going, to the next walkway— which was broken, at the bottom of the alley. _Shit_. He lost precious time retracing his steps to the stairwell, and jumped down as fast as he could without breaking a limb. Left— no, right, Natasha had described this alley to him, but now _he_ was playing bait, or maybe just running for his life— Modok had nearly caught up with him again— he had no idea where she was, if she was even— he sprinted under the arch—

_Crash._

Clint jumped and spun, nocking one of his remaining arrows—

– but Natasha had come through.

The heavy rock was very, very, effective. Modok was still.

She climbed down from the building. Clint bound Modok’s limbs, on the horrifying chance that even now, his enhanced body was struggling to regenerate. Silently, and with difficulty, they cut his damaged head away from the rest of his body. They had many reasons to make sure he stayed dead. Some of them were selfish: Clint had no desire to die that day. Some of them were for Modok’s sake. Clint wasn’t sure that taking him in alive would have been any less cruel than what they’d just done.

They struggled down to the water with their grisly load. It was bloody, smelly, messy, disturbing work. Even Natasha looked discomfited, and Clint _knew_ she had done things that would give him nightmares. Hell, they gave _her_ nightmares. He hunted around below the deck of the boat Modok had stolen, and found some tarps. They wrapped Modok’s remains, then got them on board the other boat.

“I can run interference.” Nat eyed the controls of the second boat warily. It was the first word either of them had said since they’d killed him.

Clint crawled onto the sea wall and squinted north. Little flashes of light on the horizon: the smugglers still battling the coast guard? It would be dawn soon. “Let’s just make a break for the shore.”

Nat didn’t argue, not even with his obvious lack of a backup plan. Clint got the boat started, checked the fuel level, and then headed straight out, trying to get a respectable distance from the island before they were noticed. Once they were out, they could pretend to be just another fishing boat heading out, as long as no one got too close.

Luck was with them. The coast guard didn’t notice them. Clint brought them in to a hidden spot. What they had to carry off was too obviously a body to risk unloading in front of people.

“He’s still dead,” Nat said behind him.

Clint grimaced, but nodded. Good. He hated having to kill someone twice.

They unloaded their grisly cargo, and started the long walk towards town. They weren't done yet.

*

“Tell me about Victor Modok.”

The doctor gasped. But she didn’t scream, not even when she saw Natasha standing against the door— the only convenient exit from the apartment— pointing a gun at her. She hadn't noticed Clint yet, standing against the window, the nearest _in_ convenient exit.

“Who are you?”

“That,” Nat leveled the gun more steadily, a reminder, “is not your concern right now.”

The doctor put her bag down. “I cannot tell you anything.”

“You don’t seem like a stupid woman, Doctor.”

“You will kill me, but then, so will they if I speak. And I think you will do it more quickly.” She looked at Nat with tired resignation. “Please, may I write a note first?”

Nat’s eyes narrowed. After a moment, she safetied the gun. “Someone forced you to collaborate on the Modok project.”

The woman nodded jerkily.

“Was it A.I.M.?” Clint had the rare satisfaction of surprising not only the doctor— who jumped and stared at him— but also Natasha, who raised an eyebrow. He’d had a lot of time to think about everything Modok had said, everything they’d learned. The list of groups that had the resources to put together an A.I. embedded in a living body, as well as the necessary lack of ethics, was pretty small.

The scientist hesitated, then nodded again.

“Two of your collaborators are dead,” Nat said.

“I was in contact with Brock. He said someone was watching him.” Her voice shook.

“Modok?” Clint asked.

She shook her head: no. Then she shrugged.

He and Nat exchanged looks: so, who had killed those people? Modok, or A.I.M.?

Nat lowered the gun. “Tell me about it.”

The doctor swallowed. “They kidnapped me. They took me to Kiev. There were five of us. Each of us knew at least one other scientist, a past collaborator. That was how they identified us. We were compartmentalized. Our contact was limited.”

“Where did Modok come from?”

“He was a computer program. A.I.M. had already built him. When they wanted to put him in a body… they took us.”

“John Barrington. Did A.I.M. already have him on ice?”

The doctor swallowed. “No. They had him, but he was… intact. He needed to be, for the transfer. Otherwise, the neurons— the mind-body link would have decayed.”

“Was he conscious?” Nat asked.

The doctor swallowed again. “At… first. Yes.” Then she looked up. “Modok. He was in my lab this morning. What happened to him?”

“He’s dead.”

She looked from Clint to Nat. “Did you kill him?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Why did you go along with it?” Nat demanded.

“Because they said they would kill me if I did not.”

“And you think that makes it all right?”

The doctor’s face was very pale. She tilted her chin up. “Have you come to kill me for that?”

Nat stared her down for a long moment. Then she holstered her gun. “We’ll give A.I.M. your regards.”

The woman paled further, but was silent.

“Someone get you out before A.I.M. notices. But I make no promises. And you may not like the terms.”

The scientist inclined her head.

“What did they want with him?” Nat asked.

“They wanted him to kill. And only that. That was what he was designed to do.”

“Do you know how he escaped?”

She shook her head. “No. They had let me return by then.”

“Why did they kick him out?” Clint asked.

The doctor hesitated. “He wasn't what they expected,” she said. “He thought for himself. They built him to kill, but he questioned his-- his orders. And he was crazy.” She shook her head. “They ordered us to fix him. But we only made it-- worse.”

Nat put her hand on the doorknob. “We’ll let ourselves out. Without being seen.” Clint could see, though the doctor could not, how hard she was gripping the knob. It was definitely time to go.

He felt the scientist staring as they left, and almost felt her stare between his shoulder blades as they hurried out of the building. They needed to get out now, in case she'd played them and was even now contacting A.I.M.

They bribed the captain of a small, rundown freighter to take them as far as Guam, where they’d have more options. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t officially American, but it was more thoroughly integrated into the infrastructure of that country than any other. They'd stolen two coolers from a fish market and stashed Modok inside, wrapped in chains and padlocks, and it was clear that the captain was terrified of them and their mysterious cargo. Honestly, there weren’t a _lot_ of things you smuggled in giant coolers. But the captain's desire for their money was stronger than his fear.

Clint unzipped his quiver. The captain’s eyes widened, and he started to back up. “No, no.” Clint shook his head and kept his hands low, in plain sight. “A bonus. You won’t have to worry about pirates, this trip.”

The captain’s eyes got even bigger. Clint didn't know how much he understood. He nodded, and scurried out of the way.

They had a tiny cabin barely big enough to hold them and the coolers. Clint didn't want to sleep with the remains in there, but he knew from experience that he was tired enough to do it anyway. 

When they were safely out of port, Clint sat on deck for a while, watching the waves, seeing how far he could see to the horizon. Just clearing his head. It helped, a little. He’d done plenty of fucked-up shit before. Was this any worse? Or just more complicated?

He hurt _everywhere._ He welcomed it; the pain was uncomplicated, not life-threatening. It was a nice distraction. He'd probably feel differently after sleeping-- but as long as he _got_ to sleep, he didn't care right now.

When he returned to the cabin, Nat had taken the opportunity to sponge off and wash her hair using basins, and was trying to comb out her hair with an old, broken comb she’d scrounged somewhere. He grabbed the railing of the top bunk and hauled himself up, foregoing the ladder. 

“Show-off.”

“Practical,” he retorted, and sprawled out with his arm over his eyes. He had to ignore his own smell, but it still felt fantastic.

Nat’s _hiss_ of pain got his attention. He sat up and leaned over the edge, watching her through the darkness. “Nat?”

“I'm fine.”

It was always _so_ convincing when she said it like that. She was holding the comb awkwardly, trying not to bend her palms— which were reddened. Right. Sliding down the rope. He'd had gloves, she hadn’t.

He swung his legs over the edge and jumped, landing in a crouch and straightening up. “Here.” He held out his hand, and stayed where he was. She eyed him for a moment, then held up the comb, and he came closer and gently took it out of her fingers. “Uh, turn… that way.”

She twisted.

“The other that way.”

“The air traffic controllers must love you,” she muttered. “‘Uh, Base, this is Helicarrier shuttle C429, coming in for a some-degree landing on that one runway over there…’”

He huffed quietly. “Jealous.”

“Yeah, green with envy.”

“Oh, is that what that is? I thought you were just seasick.”

She made an indignant noise. He gathered all the long dark strands into one clump, held it near the end with his right hand, and started to work through the tangles with his left. She was tense, but her shoulders relaxed, a little, as he worked carefully. Was it his proximity, or did she think he was going to pull? Or both?

The comb was terrible, but he was good with his hands, and patient. When her hair was smooth from top to bottom, he started to braid it like he’d seen her do on other occasions when she needed to keep her hair long for a cover, but wanted it out of her face.

She tilted her head to look up at him. “Where did you learn that?”

“Circus.” He did a few more rounds. “There was a girl.”

“Hawkeye, the lady-killer?” Her voice was dry.

“No, an _actual_ girl. The fortune-teller’s daughter. She was four or five when I met her. Always getting underfoot. Her mom was drunk half the time, didn’t really look after her. She, uh…” He kept braiding. “She had this long hair, usually a ratty mess, but her mom wouldn’t cut it ‘cause she used her in her act, and thought it looked better long. She— the girl, Esme— was always tryin’ to comb it out with this broken old brush missing half its teeth. Sometimes we’d do it for her. Let her eat with us, sometimes, too, when there was extra.” And sometimes when there wasn’t. He remembered, when food was tight and Esme had come over to their station wagon because her mom had drunk all their money again, Barney ladling his serving of whatever was in the battered pot into a bowl, handing it to her, and wandering off on some pretext.

He hadn’t thought about her in years. What had happened to her? Had she found any better life than working the circus same as her mom, or shacking up with the first guy to offer her a way out? 

He ran out of hair. “You have a thingy?”

She handed him an elastic band. He fastened it, let the braid drop over her shoulder, and sat down on the bunk next to her, slumping against the wall. He’d climb back up in a minute. Just a minute.

Nat half-turned towards him. “Thank you.” Her tone was wary— not much, just a little.

He nodded. “Welcome.” He'd learned to read her microscopic cycles of tension and relaxation pretty well, this last year; he should move, if she was freaked out, but his legs didn’t want to respond. And Nat was an adult. He trusted her to tell him things instead of making him read her mind.

Most of the time. Sometimes. About fifty-fifty.

“How’re your hands?”

She flexed them carefully. “They should heal in a few days.”

“You should get gloves surgically grafted on, at this rate.” First North Carolina and now here— she winced, and he realized jokes about permanently modifying her body were a bad idea.

She didn’t comment any further. But something was on her mind— she looked troubled. He half-closed his eyes, and waited, drifting off with the gentle rocking of the boat. 

“Do you believe in God?” Her voice was soft.

“No.” Not a benevolent one, that was for sure. Their parents had made him and Barney go to church when they were kids; Dad had liked having the reputation of someone who went to church every Sunday with his family. Clint had liked it because Dad couldn't hit him in church, and he was pretty sure Barney and Mom felt the same. He'd like it right up until the week he'd seen the minister see Mom's bruises and do... nothing.

Barney had seen it, too. The next week, when Mom had been home “sick,” he'd snuck in and peed in the communion wine. Not a lot. Just a little. Barney and Clint were both too young to take communion, and the minister couldn't have been the only one to notice, and ignore.

Natasha paused. “Do you believe in—“

“I don’t believe in much of anything.”

“Then why,” she said, “did it work out for me, and not for him?”

He hesitated. But he couldn’t lie to her, no matter what. He owed her that much. “Chance.” Chance, and no more.

She nodded slowly, looking disturbed. _Sad_.

“Nat, if you’d been like him, I’d’ve had to shoot you, I wouldn’t’ve had any choice.”

She nodded again. “I know.” She glanced at the coolers. Then she stood up and pressed her ear to them. 

Clint shuddered. Fuck, this might not be the worst shit he’d ever done, but it was the freakiest.

“All… quiet.” Nat looked a little disturbed herself.

He stretched, and forced himself into a sitting position. Every part of his body protested. He wasn't thankful for the pain any more. “Oh God, I’m getting too old for this.”

She looked at him without noticeable sympathy. “You’re twenty-six.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I’m a spy.”

“And a _pickpocket_.” She could easily have gone through his wallet when she’d stolen his credit card in Ontario. Or any time at the cabin. Or probably a lot of other times he didn’t even realize.

“That too.”

“Where’d you get the water?”

“Galley. Second door on the right.”

“Gonna try to clean up.” He grabbed the basins. “Do you, uh--”

“I have already seen _much_ more of you on this mission,” she said drily.

He could have done without that reminder, but if she didn't care, he certainly didn't. He got water and washed off the dirt-- the physical dirt, at least. Nat fell asleep as he was gingerly sponging dried blood off his arms. He climbed up to the top bunk and fell asleep, too.

He woke suddenly-- The bunk was rocking-- Modok was coming back to life--

\--no, Nat was shaking.

“Nat.” He drew one of his knives, and tossed the empty sheath. It landed squarely on her chest. She gasped, opened her eyes, and delivered what would have been a painful and possibly lethal blow if he'd been bending over her.

Her breathing evened out. “Sorry.”

“'s fine.” He dangled upside down over the edge of the bunk, and watched her for a moment. He had a vested interest in making sure she stayed in her right mind. He never wanted either of them to go through something like Amsterdam again.

She threw her arm over her face. Her voice was muffled. “They made him unnaturally grotesque. And they made me unnaturally... aesthetic, and appealing.”

There wasn't anything he could say to that.

“And then,” she muttered, with obvious satisfaction, “I remade myself.” She rolled over and went back to sleep.

*

They called in from Guam. “Dead,” Clint said.

A pause. “Do you have—“ Coulson said.

“Yes.” Clint told him about the scientist, and didn't ask what Coulson was going to do if A.I.M. hadn't reached her first.

A quinjet took them and their coolers to a base in Nevada; some scientists met the plane and took the coolers. Clint exchanged looks with Nat. With Modok dead, could they do anything nefarious with the body? It wasn’t Clint’s responsibility any more. Just, partly, his fault.

There was time for them to clean up and get medical attention before another quinjet whisked them away to Manhattan. Clint’s sleep schedule was going to be fucked up for the next couple of days. He hoped there wasn’t anything urgent waiting for them.

But the only thing waiting for them in Manhattan was Coulson-- and a reminder of why he was such a good handler. He looked after his people, and he was extremely organized. Namely, he had food for them. And _coffee._

Clint and Nat took turns telling the story and eating. Nat narrated most of the early part, allowing him to get something in his stomach. Because he’d been unconscious for the beginning?

They told Coulson everything-- the mission, the Russian official, the mysterious government roadblocks, the conversation with the scientist. When they were done, with their long explanation and Coulson's many questions, Coulson's phone buzzed. He frowned at it. Then: “Do you know why mammals can’t regenerate?”

Nat gave Clint a look that plainly said, _Does he do this kind of thing a lot?_ “Is that a rhetorical question, sir, or our next mission?”

“The general theory is that we traded the ability to regenerate for added protection against cancer.” He put his phone down. “Preliminary autopsy indicates that Victor Modok’s body was riddled with cancer. It was also in his brain. It’s too early to say whether it affected his reasoning. But the doctors think it's likely.”

Clint digested that. “Would he have been in pain?”

Coulson’s face was blank. “Probably, yes.”

Natasha’s face was even blanker. Coulson looked past Clint to her. “You can go. Agent Barton, stay a moment.”

Nat left. Clint leaned on the table. He was bone-tired, and he ached.

“Is there anything else you think I should know?” Coulson asked.

Clint shook his head.

Coulson folded his hands. “Considering what the mission turned out to be, how do you think Agent Romanoff took it?”

“I think that’s a question for Agent Romanoff.” The sooner he convinced people to stop treating him like Nat’s interpreter, Romanoff-to-normal, the better. He was _not exactly_ an expert on normality himself. And it would be better for everyone concerned if they stopped treating her like some mysterious and un-understandable creature. He’d make an exception for Nat herself, though; as long as she needed him to explain stuff to her, he would.

Besides— he had no idea how to answer a question like that. Nat had obviously been upset and had just as obviously been completely professional. To say either of those things would give an incomplete picture.

“And what about you?”

“I just _told_ you, I think you should ask her.”

“I meant,” Coulson said patiently, “how did you take the nature of the mission?”

Clint rubbed hard at his eyes. He was tired. He was misunderstanding, and snapping, and he wanted to go to bed. “I ain’t proud of what we did,” he said quietly.

“But you did it.”

That wasn’t a question, so he didn’t have to say anything. He didn’t know if it was a power play by Coulson, who was a good man, but a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent through and through, or a reminder that Clint had done a lot of other stuff he wasn’t proud of, either, or… He was too tired for this.

“Okay,” Coulson said. “We’re done. And you’re off-duty.”

“Sir.” Clint staggered out of his chair and headed for his bed like he had a homing beacon implanted in his feet.

*

S.H.I.E.L.D. had a holiday party.

It was usually late December or early January, depending on whatever crisis S.H.I.E.L.D. was dealing with at the time. Clint had always dodged it before. He usually worked through the holidays; a lot of agents went home to their families, so there were plenty of missions, even if some of them were dull. And the extra pay was nice.

Besides, Coulson usually worked Christmas, too, though Clint wasn’t sure why. He knew Coulson had a family, he’d seen pictures on Coulson’s personal phone, of Coulson holding a little dark-haired boy and standing next to a woman who looked a lot like him. And Coulson’s in-case-of-emergency form and his next-of-kin both had contacts listed, though Clint hadn’t seen their names.

Clint’s next-of-kin was empty, and his emergency contact was Coulson.

But anyway, sometimes he did something boring like stake out a bank for twenty-four hours, but sometimes he was with Coulson and it was more exciting. Once they’d had Christmas dinner, even, the two of them, in a greasy little diner after shutting down a cell of smugglers. Coulson had been a little punch-drunk, from the adrenaline, the pain, and the eggnog he insisted on drinking. It had actually been... merry.

But this year, the party had gotten canceled three times, pushed back to the beginning of February. Now Clint was here, in Manhattan, that night, with no good excuse for leaving. Natasha was there, too, and Coulson. They’d all gotten back from Montenegro a few hours ago, no worse for the wear except a sunburn for Natasha.

So he found himself standing with hundreds of other people in a huge, festively-decorated room. He had to admit, when S.H.I.E.L.D. threw a party, they threw a party. There was alcohol— a _lot_ of alcohol— and a lot of good food, too. Clint wandered over to one of the many food tables and made a giant sandwich, layering roast beef and turkey and ham and cheese with every condiment and vegetable he could get his hands on. It was practically a work of art when he was done. It was almost too pretty to eat.

Nah, who was he kidding.

He retreated to the corner with his enemy, pocketing a stack of cookies along the way and grabbing a bottle of beer. It was a protracted, messy battle, so it was a good thing he was in the corner, where no one would see him dropping lettuce and mayonnaise on his shirt. Dignity was overrated, especially when it came to eating, but there was no need to _deliberately_ make an idiot out of himself.

He routed the cheese ball, made a vicious frontal assault on the enormous stack of cheesecake brownies, and was strategizing for a sneak attack on the pie when he saw a familiar flash of red hair. So Natasha was here, too. She was worth leaving the corner for. Maybe he could convince her they should join forces.

On his way across the room, he saw some people he knew and actually liked, and stopped to talk to them. Tibs was there with her husband, who Clint knew, and her sister, who he didn't. Then he ran into Carter, and stopped himself from doing an instinctive check to make sure Nat was on the other side of the room. They made easy small talk for a couple of minutes. “I hear you and Romanova are partnered now?”

“Romanoff. Yes.” Casually, he turned them so he was between her and Nat’s last known position.

That didn’t escape her. She smirked. “Relax, Barton, I’m not going to go after her in a room full of S.H.I.E.D. agents.” 

_Yeah, that's reassuring_.

Her smiled faded. “If you were... right about her, then I'm glad.”

Then she looked past him, and grimaced. “Damn it, I thought Lawton was in Springfield.” Her scowl deepened. “If he sees me, he’s going to pester me to get back together with him. And I might do something stupid like shove his head into the punch bowl.” 

“Let me know if you need any help.”

She laughed, and moved on.

Next, he ran into Wilson, and met his wife and their twins. One of them hid behind her dad’s leg; the other stared up at him, playing with the beads on the end of her cornrows. Clint squatted down so they were closer to eye level. “Hey, there. How old are you?”

Silently, she held up four fingers.

“Four, huh? That’s a good age.” His conversational skills basically petered out at that point, which was just as well, because the little girl darted around her dad to hide beside her sister. Clint stood up, feeling embarrassed. Did Mary Wilson know what her husband’s colleagues did? Did she know some of them were assassins, not soldiers like her husband? Did she really want him talking to her young, impressionable children?

Then he dodged around someone he was avoiding for his own reasons— the friend of an old _friend_. He reached Nat, and found her backed up against the wall by a pudgy grey-haired man who was holding out a shot glass. She didn’t take it.

“… on your first successful mission as an agent!”

Nat folded her arms across her chest. She didn’t look happy. “I don’t like vodka.”

The man frowned. Clint placed his face: an intelligence analyst, whose habit of getting trashed at every holiday party was tolerated because the other three hundred sixty-four days of the year, he was stone-cold sober to do his job very well. He sure didn’t seem very intelligent now. “Nonsense, you’re Russian.”

Nat’s silence turned brittle, even though she didn’t move a muscle. The man frowned more deeply— it was beginning to penetrate that something was wrong, apparently, but he was too drunk to know what— and thrust the shot glass closer to her.

Nat didn’t betray Clint's presence with so much as a glance, but he knew she’d seen him. He reached over and plucked the shot glass from the man’s hands. “To Agent Romanoff’s success.” He waited until the man turned towards him, sputtering; toasted Nat; and threw back the shot. “Go away.”

The man muttered indignantly, but moved on, looking over his shoulder at Natasha and then hurrying a little. Clint looked Nat over. “You okay?”

She looked past him to the rest of the room. “You want to get out of here?”

He was enjoying himself, but if Nat was _admitting_ she was upset-- “Sure.”

She grabbed a bottle of Scotch on the way out. They climbed up, up, up the stairwell, and snuck onto the roof. They sat down out of the spotlights of anyone coming in for a landing on the helipad. Nat drank, then passed the bottle. Clint took a smaller mouthful; he didn't feel like getting hammered. It burned pleasantly down his throat, and warmed him.

She didn’t seem to want to talk. That was fine with him. He swung his legs over the edge and let them dangle free in space, watching the lights of the city. Manhattan was even more mesmerizing at night. He could look for years and never get his fill. From here, he could see the boat traffic on both rivers, and the lights of the cars on the bridges. Down below was noise and traffic and distracting chaos, but up here, from a distance, he could see clearly, could think clearly.

Apparently Nat was trying to _avoid_ thinking clearly. He drank enough to keep her company, but he didn’t hate his liver enough to match her pace. Though if he started thinking about Christmas, he just might. He usually avoided that party for a reason.

“After my first kill, they gave me vodka.” Nat’s voice was low. “ _He_ said, ‘Congratulations, Natalia! Today you are a woman in the Red Room.’” Her accent and intonation were not her own. Clint had no doubt she was mimicking the original perfectly. “You know, in most cultures that have the concept of ‘becoming a woman,’ it’s when you start to menstruate? In the Red Room, it was when you made someone _else_ bleed. To death.”

He passed the bottle back to her.

“It was an old man.” She played with the bottle. “An old librarian, from before the fall. They said he knew things, old secrets. I don't know. Maybe they didn’t care about his secrets, and they just wanted to train me.”

“I was fourteen. I pretended to be his home care nurse. He turned around, and I put a knife in his heart. But my aim was off, and I had to do it again. A clean kill. _They_ had been very clear. I nearly carved his heart out.” She took a long draught. “After the first stroke, he looked down. He was so puzzled. Then he fell over.”

Clint was silent. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t big on superfluous words, but he couldn’t _not_ say anything. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. It wasn’t enough, he didn’t know what it was like, but he _was_ sorry.

“Thanks.” She passed him the bottle. “It wasn’t the worst thing they made me do.”

“Does that matter?”

“But it was the only one they gave me vodka for.” She shrugged. “Thanks.”

He drank. “For what?”

“Wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t feel… safe.”

“You’re drunk.”

“What was your first clue?” Her words were still perfectly enunciated and understandable.

“You’re talking about your feelings.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “You’re not drunk, though.”

“No. Not yet.” He didn’t have much reason to be. No one had ever brainwashed _him_ and sent him to kill an unarmed old man. _No, the only unarmed old man I ever killed was--_

He drank deeply.

But if he _wanted_ to feel sorry for himself, sitting up here with Nat was one of the better holidays he’d ever had. Dad's most memorable presents had all been bruises; foster care hadn't been much better. Christmas in the circus was just another cold day. Their first year, he’d scrounged together enough money to buy Barney a crappy gift— a pair of crappy dollar store mittens. Barney hadn’t given him anything, and Clint could tell he’d felt terrible about it, which was stupid, since Barney was the one feeding and housing him. For Clint’s next birthday, Barney had given him a new quiver, since Clint’d been borrowing Buck’s old ones at that point, and they were way too big for him. Clint had found out Barney’d sold his little harmonica to buy the quiver; they’d had a big, embarrassing fight; Barney had stormed out of camp. And so it had gone.

Clint shook his head and dug into his pocket for the cookies. But they'd crumbled into soft pieces. “Aw, cookies, no.” He fished out the bits and started to nibble them out of his palm. “Why did you tell me who made you?”

Nat blinked at him.

“In Klaipeda.”

She eyed him. “Why do you want to know?”

_Because that was the difference between me killing you and walking, and me bringing you in._ “Curiosity.”

“It's kind of sappy,” she said after a moment.

She really _was_ drunk. “'s fine.”

“You figured out what had happened to me. Somehow. You looked at me and saw an actual... person. Even I didn't see that, then.”

Clint had seen her as an actual person because he'd been watching her to kill her. He had an eye for the details that had told him something about the Black Widow didn't add up because he was a sniper. Was that poetic justice, or just fucked up?

They drank some more, and sat in the cold. “See,” Nat said, “ten feet above the party. More.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You sure know how to find a good time.”

“In Soviet Russia, Party finds you.”

She stared at him. “You know,” she said finally, “from this high up, I could make it look like an accident.”

He smiled. 

After a while, there was a footstep behind them. They both turned— but it was only Coulson. He set a plate piled with cold cuts, crackers and cookies on the roof between them, then another bottle of Scotch— a full one. Then he squatted.

“What are you doing?” Clint asked.

“Joining you. Do you mind?”

_No, freaks and misfits only_. But even in the dark, Clint could see the look on Coulson’s face. He was sad. And Coulson always worked Christmas, too. “No.”

Nat waved airily to the roof, which Coulson interpreted as an invitation to sit. Clint made a double-decker turkey-and-cracker sandwich. Nat passed Coulson the open bottle. Clint had seen Coulson sit back and relax with a beer very occasionally, after the sort of case that ended well and with no loose ends. This was different. This was Coulson drinking efficiently, silently, and with purpose-- as if it were a mission.

Clint watched Coulson, and watched Nat watch Coulson. Coulson wasn’t ignoring them, but he’d switched off that ultra-focused, ultra-analytical, I-see-and-know-everything stare. That was another sign that he was upset. This wasn’t Agent Coulson. This was just Phil.

“What happened?” Nat asked.

Clint blinked, not sure who she was talking to. Phil wasn’t sure, either; he put his Agent face back on. “I beg your pardon?” His speech was still precise. The only sign that he was getting drunk was the way his eyes tracked.

“To you. To make you sit on a roof in New York in February, getting methodically hammered.”

And that was a dead giveaway that _Nat_ was drunk, because bluntness wasn’t her MO. She was rarely honest enough to let her target see her real purpose. Even when she was just being Nat, not Agent Romanoff, she didn’t admit to being curious. She used questions like needles. This was a sledgehammer.

Phil gave her a long, thoughtful look, fairly intelligent for how much Scotch he’d had. “That’s none of your business.”

Nat raised her eyebrows. “Most of the things I get into aren’t my business.” She grabbed the bottle back. “It’s what you pay me for.”

Clint suddenly realized he wouldn’t miss this for the world.

“Is someone paying you to pry into my private life?” Phil slurred a little over the 'p's, tangling 'pry' and 'private.' 

“Do you turn your spy brain off when you go home?” Nat countered.

“You’re not at home. You’re on a roof.”

“If you were at home, would you answer my question?”

It was a battle of wits, and the stakes were Phil’s answer.

“No,” Phil said after a minute, “because home is where the spy brains go off.”

“Home is where the spy brains _don’t_ go off,” Nat argued.

“Then where do the spy brains go off?”

_They misfire on roofs in Manhattan, apparently._

“Nowhere. Never. That’s what I’m saying.”

Phil didn’t respond, which left Nat without an easy opening. “What happened to you?” he asked after a minute.

“What happened to me, what?”

“To make you sit on a roof in New York in February, getting methodically hammered.”

Nat bristled— she would have anyway, probably, but since she was drunk, it was actually noticeable. “You have my file.”

“I know you didn't tell me everything.”

“You’re right. I didn’t. And it’s none of your business.”

Unfortunately for Clint’s entertainment, they reached a stalemate here, and drank in silence. Clint made another cracker sandwich, then started on the cookies. Coulson had brought the good kinds— the sugar cookies were always overpoweringly sweet, but the peanut butter and the oatmeal raisin were nice. Clint had vague memories of a grandmother who’d made oatmeal raisin cookies, before Dad had kept them all away from Mom's family and their inconvenient questions. That wasn’t why he liked them, though. There was just something comfortingly wholesome about the taste. His life was emphatically _not_ wholesome, so he relied on cookies to make up the balance. Like the rest of his coping mechanisms, it worked fantastically.

It was getting cold. Clint had grabbed his coat on the way out of the party, Phil had his own coat, and Natasha was Russian, but February in New York was nothing to sneeze at. Clint slid his fingers into the crook of his knee to warm them. He didn’t want to lose his grip and drop the Scotch. That would be bad.

They finished the first bottle. “Coulson, what happened to the kid from Klaipeda?”

“What?” 

It was the first time Clint could remember Phil responding to a question without perfect coherence. Phil was good, he didn’t get drunk easily, but Clint wasn’t keeping up with them, and Nat had been taught very painfully to keep her body under her absolute control. 

“The kid. The guy who was beating him? Natasha hurt him and I killed him? That guy's kid.”

Phil thought for longer than he usually would have needed. “He went to live with his grandmother.”

“Good.” There was no guarantee that the kid's grandmother was any better, really, but--

“I’m done,” Phil said after a while. His speech was still remarkably clear.

“We haven’t finished the second bottle,” Natasha said.

“I can taste the alcohol again. And I forgot why I was drinking in the first place. It’s time to stop.”

Trust Coulson, of all people, to get responsibly smashed. Though technically, Clint was the responsible one, since he was the least drunk. He stood, careful not to wobble off the roof, and held out his hand to help Phil up. Phil handed him the nearly-empty plate of crackers, staggered to his feet, and turned to offer Natasha a hand. She handed him the empty bottle, keeping a tight hold on the half-full one.

The door had slammed shut behind them. Phil and Clint looked at each other blankly. Natasha produced a set of lockpicks— she seriously carried those things all the time?— and set to work on the lock. Clint finished the crackers while they were waited.

It took her longer than usual, but she got the door open and held it for Phil and Clint. Clint let her go in front of him on the stairs. In his self-appointed role as The Responsible One, it made sense for him to shepherd them down the stairs. What could he talk a drunk Phil Coulson and a drunk Natasha Romanoff into? Even his good imagination boggled at that.

No, he’d be good. Anything he tried would probably blow up in his face. It'd be like herding temperamental lions with opposable thumbs and big flamethrowers.

At the bottom of the stairs, Phil straightened his still-straight cuffs and tie. Nat listened against the door. “It’s clear.”

Phil's quarters in Manhattan were the way to Clint's room and to Natasha's, so they followed Phil to make sure he got there without trouble. More than either Clint's or Nat's, Phil's reputation depended on being calm and in control at all times. 

They left Phil there. “I can make it back to my room,” Natasha said.

He looked at her. “You sure?”

She scoffed. “I'm not _that_ drunk.”

_You're drunk enough to be talking about your Feelings_. “Okay.” He stopped at his door and opened it. “'Night.”

Natasha walked in and sprawled facedown across his bed.

“Uh.”

She didn't move.

“Nat, this is my room.”

She didn't move.

He made a face of long-suffering, and let the door close behind him. “You can stay here if you want, long as you know where you are.”

“I know where I am,” she told the pillow.

His bed wasn't very big, but at least it wasn't against the wall. He wouldn't have to climb over her. He _wasn't_ giving up his bed for her. “Shoes, off, and you have to give me back my pillow.”

He thought he was going to have to physically remove both her shoes and the pillow, but after a minute, she kicked them off, and scooted to the edge of the bed. He took off his own shoes, turned his back, and exchanged his pants for a pair of sweatpants. Then he stripped down to his undershirt, grabbed an extra blanket, hit the lights, and climbed into bed. Natasha was breathing deeply; he thought she was actually asleep. It didn't take him long to fall asleep himself.

*

He woke up when the bed shifted. 

He looked over his shoulder. Very faint light was coming in around the thick blinds, and Natasha was sitting up in bed. With a gun in her hand. He hadn't actually seen her put it under the pillow, but he wasn't surprised.

She had a weird look on her face, and it wasn't happiness. “Clint.”

“Hi.”

She looked around. “What the fuck did I do.”

Of all the things he wanted in his bed, a freaked-out, confused, armed assassin was towards the bottom of the list, along with temperamental lions with opposable thumbs and big flamethrowers. “Nothing.”

“I have a hangover, that doesn't mean _nothing_.” Her voice was tight.

“We sat on the roof. You, me, Coulson. We got drunk. We came down. You crashed here.” If she was she confused enough to be worried that-- “We didn't fuck, if that's what you're concerned about.”

She looked down at him, less panicked, but not any happier. “I have lots of experience waking up in a strange bed after sex,” she said finally. “I know what that feels like. It's not this.”

“Good.” He rolled over, rummaged in his bedside table, and handed her a bottle of aspirin.

She swallowed a couple. “What happened?”

This was much less amusing than the night before. “Do you remember the party?”

She nodded.

“Someone pissed you off. We went to the roof with a bottle of Scotch. We talked. Coulson came up with another bottle. We made it halfway through the second bottle, he decided he was done, we made sure he got back to his room, and came here.” _How much do you remember?_ But if she was panicking about having gaps in her memory-- he didn't want to rub it in.

The look she gave him was less panicked still, but so clearly speculative that it was a little heartbreaking.

“Nothing happened,” he repeated. “You didn't do anything, Coulson and I were there.” He hesitated-- this was a cheap shot, but he could guess where the road marked “memory loss” went in her head, and it wasn't a good place. “Do you trust us?”

“I do, actually,” she said after a minute, still eyeing him. “That doesn't-- reassure me.”

There wasn't much he could say to that.

She closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Did she know she'd picked that up from Phil? “Romanoff, you idiot.”

“Stopping you from beating yourself up makes me kind of a hypocrite, but if it makes you feel better, I've done worse.”

“Like what?”

“I stole Phil's car.”

That worked: she put down her hand and stared at him. “You _what?_ ”

“Right after I came in.”

“His _personal_ car?”

“Yep.” For a mission, but still.

Finally, she stopped looking like the world might be ending any second. She even cracked a smile. “I wish I could have seen it.”

“You should ask him. You should ask him when I can watch.”

Her smile grew, then vanished. “That man. The vodka,” she muttered. “I remember now.”

“Okay.” He sat up. Shower, he needed a shower. And food. 

Natasha pulled on her shoes and caught her hair in an elastic. “I'm going to go now.”

“Okay.” _Are you okay?_ But he knew he wouldn't get a straight answer, and he didn't think reminding her how much she'd just freaked out would help.

After he was clean and presentable he went to find Coulson, because he was a terrible person. He hoped, he really hoped, Phil's morning-after had been less disturbing than Natasha's. Phil looked remarkably put together for someone who'd had so much Scotch less than twelve hours ago, but there were telltale signs of strain around his eyes, and he had an extra-large mug of coffee.

He looked up and made a face when he saw Clint coming. Clint got that a _lot_ , actually. “How entertaining was that?” Coulson asked with resignation.

Clint grinned. “Oh, just as entertaining as you’d expect.” Which was to say, entertaining, and also heartbreaking.

Coulson sighed, but didn’t complain. “Remind me never to drink with you if you’re not actually drinking.”

“I’ll be sure and forget to do so, sir.”

“Always so helpful, Agent Barton.”

“I do try, sir.”

“You’re very trying,” Coulson agreed. He tilted his head, and studied Clint for a minute. “My older brother was killed in car crash at Christmas, on his way home from his first semester of college. I idolized him.”

Clint was surprised, and then— well, _honored_ was a soft and sappy word, but he hadn’t expected Coulson to tell him. He digested that. “How old were you?”

“I was ten.”

“You have family,” Clint said after a minute.

“Yes. My mother and my sisters are alive.”

“I bet they miss you at Christmas.”

“Are you interfering, Agent Barton?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “Because, Phil, you know what it’s like to lose somebody, but you don’t know, they don’t know, what it’s like to lose _everybody_. And when you do know that? It’s too late to change anything.”

Phil studied him. “I’ll take that under advisement.” The conversation was clearly over, but he didn’t seem upset. “Is Agent-- how is Natasha?”

Did Phil somehow know where she'd slept? Clint didn't pretend that he didn't know what Phil was talking about. But _'fuck if I know_ ' wasn't a helpful answer, and was more revealing than he should probably be, anyway. _I think that's a question for Agent Romanoff._ “She's, she's...”

He hesitated. “She's 'fine.'”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: a character in this chapter repeatedly heals around projectiles embedded in his skin; has his eye put out; and is killed by massive blunt trauma to the head.
> 
> Hashima Island, also known as Gunkanjima or “Battleship” Island, is a real place off the coast of Nagasaki; at one time, it was the most densely populated place on earth. M.O.D.O.K. is a character from Marvel comics. Victor Frankenstein belongs to Mary Shelley.


	2. Testudines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains graphic violence, on-screen death, misogynistic slurs, terrorism, child abuse and death.
> 
> This chapter contains references to: torture of the intensity displayed in the Marvel movies, disordered eating.

_Leave_.

It was a strange concept. She’d never taken any before. The Red Room’s idea of a vacation had been a job where you didn’t have to do anything more than look pretty and sleep with your mark before you killed him. She’d never worked for any other organization for an extended period of time after leaving the Red Room. She’d taken _vacations_ — well, one, to a remote region of Tanzania, to keep her head down and get it screwed on straight. Not so much vacation as a life-saving intervention.

But she’d never taken _leave_ before. Leave implied that there was someone with enough authority over you to tell you when you could go. Leave implied that you had gotten permission. Leave implied that you were coming back.

And she had come back. She was standing in the lobby of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Manhattan facility, duffel bag slung over her shoulder. People gave her curious looks since she wasn't moving, but nobody questioned her; she had the proper clearance. At some point she was going to have to continue on inside, but now she was just... thinking.

“Romanoff.”

Her head snapped up. Clint was standing about eight feet away, looking amused. How had he gotten so close without her noticing? She filed that away for later.

“Is the floor tile displaying signs of suspicious behavior?”

“You can’t be too careful.”

He turned and headed back into the main building, and she fell into step beside him.

“Have a nice vacation?”

“Yes.” It hadn’t been much of one-- setting up safe houses around the world, and shutting down some she'd had as Natalia Romanova, just to be cautious. She'd also restocked her fake IDs, stashing them in hidey-holes in several countries. But neither Clint nor anyone else at S.H.I.E.L.D. needed to know that.

“You dropped off the radar, Coulson was annoyed.” He sounded amused.

She wasn’t surprised. She’d expected S.H.I.E.L.D. to try to track her. “Yes, I wanted a top-secret agency monitoring my time at a _beach resort_ ,” she said. “You were taking some time too, weren’t you?”

“I took a road trip.” He held the swinging door so it didn’t hit her.

She raised an eyebrow. “You are a walking exhibit of Americana.”

“Actually, no. Americana refers specifically to physical things. I think you meant to call me a walking exhibit of something more intangible, like American idealism.”

She stared at him. He smiled back pleasantly. “Aren’t you informative.”

“But I don't really go in for idealism these days, so it would have to be something like… a walking exhibit of a certain set of ideas considered to be representative of a bygone era, but in fact, largely imaginary.”

She’d never known Clint to chatter before. He must have come back from his vacation— his _road trip_ — in a good mood. “Where’d you go?”

“I took Route 66 from Chicago to Santa Monica.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“Coulson wants to see you. Something just came up.” Clint’s wandering had been purposeful; he reached for the door to a conference room.

She glanced at her duffel bag.

“Unless you have contraband in there?” His hand hesitated on the handle.

“No.” Nothing that he needed to know about.

“Good.” He pulled it open, then gestured for her to precede him.

“Agent Romanoff,” Coulson greeted her. “Welcome back. I hope you enjoyed your vacation. Cancún, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You don’t look very tanned.”

“I take protecting my skin very seriously.” She did, actually, as seriously as she took every other part of protecting her appearance. It was one of her best and most effective weapons.

Not that _that_ was why she wasn’t tanned.

“It’s certainly a very bustling place. Easy to… disappear.”

She gave him her most charming smile. “Yes. I found that restful.”

He gave up the verbal fencing and got down to business, activating a projector with a flick of his hand. “We need you to steal this.”

She looked at it. Then at him. Then at Clint. His face was blank, which could mean he agreed that Coulson was going crazy, or could mean this was perfectly normal and _she_ was going crazy.

“Coulson, that’s a turtle.” An _enormous_ turtle.

“No, it’s a tortoise. There’s a difference. You need to be careful not to submerge Eloise.”

“Elo-what?”

“That’s the tortoise’s name,” he said patiently, as if this were a normal conversation and she was being a bit slow.

“Why not?”

“Because tortoises can’t swim.”

She looked at him. “Were you deprived of pets as a child?” That was something normal children often had, right?

“I bet we could find something more entertaining than a tortoise for you, sir. When I was in the circus—“

“Drifting.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This particular tortoise,” Coulson continued, “was the cherished pet of Sarah, Lady Corbet, wife of a Shropshire baronet who died shortly after the end of the Vietnam War. Lady Corbet survived him until the late 80s, at which time the tortoise, Eloise—“

Clint snorted and turned it into a cough.

“Something in your throat? Do you need me to pound you vigorously on the back?” she asked.

“No, no. I’m good.”

“— at which time the tortoise, Eloise, passed into the care of Lady Corbet’s niece, Amelia. Amelia’s brother, Vincent, cared for him--”

“Cared for who?”

“Eloise. The tortoise.”

“You called her 'him.'”

“No, Eloise is a male tortoise.”

Natasha looked at him.

“-- cared for him while Amelia was at university. Afterwards, she moved to the country and became a painter, taking the tortoise with her. She and Eloise are still residing in Exmoor.”

“You put surveillance on a tortoise?” she asked.

Coulson smiled. “It was punishment detail. It seems to have worked.” He showed them a small, run-down house surrounded by green fields. “This is her residence. She’s in her mid-thirties now, and very reclusive. The unfortunate screw-up tasked with watching her reports that she goes out once a week, for groceries. She also takes occasional trips to Exeter, and sometimes to Bristol and London, to exhibit her paintings. But you can’t rely on her leaving town during the critical window.”

“What is the critical window?” Natasha asked.

“We need him within the next two weeks. You need to travel to Exmoor, enter Ms. Corbet’s home, and remove Eloise, without alerting Ms. Corbet until you're gone. And you need to make this quiet. If Eloise's importance becomes known, certain parties could kidnap and torture Ms. Corbet in hopes of finding the same thing we're looking for.”

Clint rubbed his neck, and looked like he was deciding between several possible questions. “How big _is_ … Eloise?”

“He’s approximately a meter.”

Natasha looked at him.

“And about four hundred pounds.”

There was a very pronounced silence.

“What does S.H.I.E.L.D. want with... Eloise?” Natasha asked finally.

“Lady Corbet’s husband, Sir Andrew, was a codebreaker for the British government,” Coulson said. “He appears only on one, very secret roster, provided to us by one of our most talented agents. His work was not widely known at all.” He showed them a smiling man standing on a cricket pitch. “Officially, he died of a heart attack, but S.H.I.E.L.D.’s analysis confirms he was poisoned.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.’s ‘analysis’?” Clint asked. “Was digging up the body punishment detail, too?”

“He was cremated,” Coulson said drily. “The poison was a slow-acting one. We think it was administered in his favorite pipe tobacco. He would have had about twenty minutes. He was alone in the house when he died.”

“Shortly after his death, the entire house was ransacked, but nothing was removed. Eloise’s next vet examination showed that he’d had a small portion of his shell glued back into place. At the time of Sir Andrew’s death, he was working on a code the British government thought was being used by a mole inside MI-6. He had the only copy of the intercepted transmissions; the man who brought him the job did so without official sanction. He was afraid one of his superiors was in on it. Since he was found dead in the Thames two days later, he was probably right.”

“You think Sir Andrew hid the key to the code in his wife’s tortoise,” Natasha said.

“And either you’re sure enough of that, or you’re desperate enough, to send us to England to _steal_ the tortoise,” Clint added.

“Something like that.”

“Why is a forty-year-old code suddenly so important?” she asked.

“No one has ever cracked it. A number of agencies-- including ours-- have unsuccessfully tried to recreate Sir Vincent’s work. He was a genius. Recently, we intercepted some transmissions that appear to be using that encryption pattern. We think they're about the transfer of nuclear weapons among certain well-funded groups in Southeast Asia.”

Natasha frowned. “Who was the original mole passing messages to?”

“We don’t know.”

“There aren’t many organizations that have survived the last forty years of turnover,” Clint said.

“No,” Coulson agreed. “Not many independent ones.”

“You think a government is helping them?”

“The man who turned up in the Thames thought the transmissions were going to a London embassy, but he didn’t determine which one before he died.”

“Who else knows about the... Eloise… connection?” Clint said.

“We don’t know. We don’t think anyone else has connected the dots, but we can’t be sure.”

Clint frowned. “What’s our extraction for a 400-pound tortoise?”

“You’ll get him to Salisbury Plain. There will be a cargo plane there to pick you up.”

“Do tortoises bite?”

“Yes.”

“Cover identities?” she asked.

“You’ll have your pick. It’s up to you how you want to do this, but it is imperative that you not involve Ms. Corbet.”

“When do we leave?” Clint asked.

“As soon as you’re ready.”

“Does S.H.I.E.L.D. still have surveillance on Ms. Corbet?” she asked.

“Yes, but not around the clock. We have someone going by her house every few days.”

“When was the last time she went out of town?”

“Several months ago.”

Natasha looked at Clint. He looked back at her, face blank and slightly baffled.

“Any other questions?” Coulson asked.

“No, sir,” Clint said.

“Agent Romanoff?”

“No.”

“Meet in Documents in twenty?” Clint asked.

She dropped off her bag, and checked her tiny room for signs that S.H.I.E.L.D. had searched it. They’d made her an agent, but if they weren’t still keeping more a more stringent watch on her than they were their other agents, she was disappointed in the limits of their paranoia. But apparently they hadn't bothered-- maybe they knew she had so little inside, it was pointless.

When she got down to Documents, Clint was already flipping through the descriptions of pre-existing cover identities. They were, necessarily, vague descriptions; Docs didn’t let anyone see the names until it they'd confirmed that the agent would be using that identity. That way, no agent could be tortured or bribed into giving up aliases for their fellow agents.

“How complicated you wanna go with this?” he asked.

She sat beside him. “There’s really no cover identity we could establish that would make kidnapping a tortoise seem normal.” They were the only ones in the cubicle, so she could speak frankly about their mission. “We could pose as reptile veterinarians, but we’d still have to convince Corbet that her tortoise needs attention, and that falls under the ‘don’t involve her’ prohibition.”

Clint nodded. “Yeah, I had come to that same conclusion. What about these?” He handed her two printouts.

She scanned them: a male photographer and a female writer, collaborating on a series of “off-the-beaten-path” blog posts with the sponsorship of a wilderness gear producer. It would give them an excuse to wander around and be nosy. She nodded. “We can stop off in Wales first for a day or two, to establish a trail and give us something to talk about if anyone asks.”

“They can pull our descriptions from the files and fill in the details.” Clint closed the binder except for those two sheets.

“I think I'll keep my hair brown for this one.” She hadn't redyed it, after Vladivostok, but it was starting to grow in.

“Someone you know over there?”

“No, just a precaution.” Natasha’s personal preference had been to get in, make her kill, and get out without anyone knowing what had happened, but there had been times when she'd been paid for conspicuous. She hadn’t cared, as long as they’d paid enough. She’d made sure that people remembered an image, or something wasn’t really her, like an ornate knife or a mask. Still, there were a lot of people out there who might potentially recognize her.

They told the clerk on duty what they wanted. “It'll be ready in twelve hours,” she said.

“I have some things to take care of in the city,” she told Clint as they left. “I’ll be back by the time our covers are ready.”

“Fine. See you.”

She'd gone three steps in the other direction when someone came around the corner. He nearly ran into her before she dodged. “Coulson?” _Not an attack_. She relaxed.

But Coulson was still moving, quickly, in the same direction. He shoved a duffel bag in her direction; she took it, reflexively, and followed. “What’s going on?”

Coulson handed another bag to Clint, and then his bow and quiver. “You need to get to England. Now. Someone’s watching Amelia Corbet.”

She shifted into mission mode. “We just dropped our cover stories off—“

“They’ll be finished by the time you land.”

“When’s our flight?”

“You’re taking a private jet. Wheels up in five minutes.”

“You can’t email a passport.”

“It’ll be waiting for you at the airstrip.”

“My roots are coming in.”

“Dye it on the plane.” He handed her a box, that he’d apparently been carrying in his pocket. She had never yet seen Coulson not prepared and on top of a situation. It was simultaneously comforting and alarming. “We’ve changed your nationality. Romanoff, you’re English. Barton, you’re a naturalized American expat. Fewer people will question your papers that way. Keep your mouth shut and let Romanoff do most of the talking.”

“I usually do.”

Coulson looked at him sideways. “I was talking about your accent.”

“What’s the surveillance on Ms. Corbet?” Clint asked.

“We’re not sure yet. At least one person with a telescope. Our closest agent is trying to get more information. I’ll update you as soon as it comes in.”

They reached the hangar, where the noise of the revving jet prevented any further conversation. As soon as she and Clint were onboard, the guard closed the door. “We’re good to go,” she said into the intercom.

She opened the duffel bag as the plane started moving. Clothes, makeup, weapons— _lots_ of weapons, a nice selection of knives, guns, sheaths, holsters, and ammo. It was all what she would have chosen if she’d done it herself. Had Coulson packed it? There was also a small computer and a selection of notebooks. When she found conditioner and Vaseline in the bag, she _knew_ it must have been Coulson. No one else would have thought to add what she needed for her hair.

The sooner she did her hair, the sooner it would dry. “You need the toilet?” It would take her a while, and she didn’t want to drip everywhere if she had to leave.

“No.” Clint closed up his own bag and stretched out across three seats.

“You have a black T-shirt in your bag?”

He reached down into his bag, dug around, and tossed her a wad of black fabric. She caught it. “It’s going to get wet and covered in dye.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He lay back down and put his arm over his eyes.

When she was done, Clint appeared to be sleeping deeply. That was a good idea, but she wanted food. The galley had MREs, a stack of frozen dinners, _and_ a bag of sandwiches. Someone had made sure the crew and cargo were provisioned. She heated up a frozen dinner, grabbed a sandwich, and ate in the cabin. Then she imitated Clint, curling up on a row of seats and covering her eyes with a sweatshirt.

When she woke a couple of hours later, Clint was awake, munching on a cookie. “Where did you find those?”

“Cabinet above the counter. Want one?” He pulled out two more from a side pocket.

_You’ve already had the calories you need._ But the voice was leftover from what someone else had put in her brain. “Sure.” She caught what he tossed across the aisle, though if she hadn’t caught it, it would have fallen precisely into her lap. For something that had been wrapped in plastic and sat on a shelf for God knows how long, it wasn’t bad. 

“I used to live with a woman who made cookies kinda like these,” Clint mused, unwrapping his second.

“At the circus?”

She wasn’t sure he was going to respond. He took a deliberate bite, chewed slowly, and swallowed. “No.”

She didn't pursue the subject. “What’s the plan?”

“Get to Exmoor as soon as we can, find the surveillance. Take them out. Figure out who they’re working for, get the tortoise, go back as far as we need to to destroy the link to Corbet.”

So, potentially fighting terrorists and risking diplomatic incidents, if Coulson’s suspicions were correct. She nodded.

After a few minutes, she looked around. “I never thought about how much all these flights must cost.”

“Money’s not usually a problem.”

“Where does it come from?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. Never needed to know. Some of it from Howard Stark, I think, he was behind it in the beginning.”

She frowned. “Stark.”

“Stark Industries. The present CEO’s dad.”

“Right.”

“There’s a rumor that Fury and Stark knew each other in the war.”

She did some rapid calculations. The current CEO was about 35, so the war in question had to be— but Fury wasn’t old enough for that. “What?”

Clint shrugged again. “You’d think. But it’s a persistent rumor. Of course, there’s also a rumor that Fury and Captain America knew each other in the war, so, make of it what you will.”

“I thought Captain America was just a myth.”

“Nope. He was real. Coulson knows a lot about him. You should ask him sometime. If you want your ear talked off.”

“I was offered a job on him about two years back.”

“Who, Coulson?”

“No, Stark. Tony Stark. Someone didn’t like the weapons he’s been giving the military.” She shrugged. “It was good money. They were willing to pay for a high-quality professional. I almost took it. But I was hunting down some loose ends from another job, and then I got a lead on the Red Room.” The lead hadn’t panned out, and by the time she’d determined that, the person offering the job had found someone else— a team of commandos. She’d heard later that they’d all been killed in the attempt, and that their employer had been hunted down, extradited to the U.S., and thrown in prison. _She_ wouldn’t have been so sloppy.

“Huh,” Clint said. “Probably just as well you didn’t. Would have been a clusterfuck for S.H.I.E.L.D. to smooth over.”

She’d killed lots of other important businessmen, but none so well-connected with the American military. “S.H.I.E.L.D. works pretty closely with the U.S. for an autonomous group.”

“Yeah. I don’t know who pulls the strings. Probably don’t want to.”

“It’s not Fury?”

“It might be.”

“Any ideas on moving the tortoise?” she asked after a few minutes. She had a few, but she wanted to hear Clint’s first.

“Well.” He settled back and stretched his legs out. “We could lift it a couple of inches, onto something wheeled.”

“It’s four hundred pounds.”

“I have _seen_ you scale buildings using only your arms.”

He had a point. “This thing has to fit through doors. Unless the vet makes house calls.”

She and Clint exchanged looks.

“It can probably fit through doors.” He sounded less convinced than he’d probably intended. “We could always… tie it up, turn it on its side to get it through.”

“It’s _four hundred pounds_.”

“Fine, okay, let’s assume it can fit through doors. We need a vehicle and some way to get it on there. Might be able to roll it up a ramp, together.”

“We could find a vehicle with a lift. Like for a wheelchair.”

“Would that lift four hundred pounds?”

“It might burn out the motor, but once we get to the airstrip, we’ll have help getting him out.”

“So we need a giant skateboard and a wheelchair-accessible van,” Clint said. “Neither of those things will be difficult to find at all.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“ _What’s_ not a bad idea?”

“For our tortoise-cart: four skateboards and a piece of plywood.”

“You know,” he said after a minute, “this isn’t the most ridiculous situation I’ve been in for S.H.I.E.L.D?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you.”

“Why aren't we killing Eloise and cutting up his shell on the spot? It would be easier.”

Clint shrugged. “Less inconspicuous.”

“Nothing says inconspicuous like stealing a four hundred pound tortoise.”

He grinned. “I’m gonna get some more sleep.”

That was a good idea.

*

They landed shortly before dawn, at a small, deserted airstrip. There was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent waiting on the tarmac. He handed Clint a manila envelope and a set of car keys, then pointed to the farther of two black sedans sitting on the parking lot.

“Identities. Cash. Transportation. Anything else?” The agent's accent was faintly Scottish.

Clint opened the envelope. “No.”

“You’ve been briefed on the situation?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s the latest intelligence.” He handed her a file folder. She opened it, saw the handwritten notes, and wondered if _he_ were the agent who’d been on punishment detail.

“Thank you.” She fixed her accent firmly in place.

“You’re welcome. Good luck.”

They threw their gear in the back seat. Natasha took out her phone and zoomed into their location. “Head this way for about seven miles, then follow the signs to the highway.”

There were few other cars on the road. The other agent turned off after about three minutes, leaving them alone. She opened the envelope. “I’m Rose Madley.” She read further, and slid her accent from London to something more appropriate to the West Midlands. “From Birmingham.” She memorized her list of travels, pulling details from her memory for the places she’d actually been to. Pulling details and sanitizing them-- there was no reason a travel writer would know about the underground prisons of Morocco. “Twenty-six.” She looked at the picture. How the hell had Coulson gotten such an accurate passport photo for her new hair color? He must have given Docs the lot number of the hair dye and gotten them to Photoshop it.

“Who’m I?”

She slid Rose's documents back in the envelope. “James Frank,” she said. “From California. Thirty. You’ve traveled extensively up and down the West Coast, and also in Scotland. You had a series about deserted military fortifications of western Europe. You’ve also been to Germany, Siberia, the Amazon Basin, the Peruvian highlands, Christchurch, Beijing and Shanghai, Kolkatta, and much of southeastern Asia.”

“Okay, I can lie pretty convincingly about that.” 

“You need a camera.”

“Coulson already thought of that, he put it in my bag.”

Natasha took out one of the notebooks and started writing. “Where did we just come from?”

“Let’s stick with Wales.”

“Have we ever worked together before?”

“Not before the blog posts,” she decided. It would keep them from having to get their stories straight. “Those probably exist by now.” S.H.I.E.L.D. would take care of faking an electronic trail for the blog. She started up the laptop, plugged her S.H.I.E.L.D. phone in, and checked their website. There were twenty posts going back three months. As Clint drove, she read the highlights to him. They weren’t going to run into anyone who’d read them, since the posts hadn’t existed twenty-four hours ago, but they needed to know their cover story. Then she memorized the intelligence notes.

They stopped abruptly at a small thrift store that had a stack of sporting equipment in the window. Natasha went in and bought all seven skateboards, leaving the cashier looking puzzled. She risked having him remember the woman who’d paid for seven skateboards early in the morning with a large bill, but unless someone got close enough to Eloise to _see_ the skateboards, it was a small risk.

They reached Exmoor by mid-morning. “The agent saw someone with a scope on the hill southwest of the house yesterday morning.”

“Right.”

They checked into a small hotel under their assumed names. Clint covered the smoke detector and burned the intelligence papers in the sink while she checked for any updates on the situation. Then she emptied her bag. At the bottom she even found a small backpack, collapsed. Coulson really had thought of everything. It was a little disconcerting. 

Clint pulled out a bag of his own, which held his photography equipment, and also had room for his collapsed bow and a small quiver of arrows. “Point and shoot.” He turned the camera on and played with it. “I’m familiar with that concept.”

Natasha double-checked her guns. “I bet you’re jealous of the automatic focusing, though.”

“A bit.”

They asked at the front desk for local attractions, and headed for the one closest to where Amelia Corbet lived. Spending the morning wandering around collecting material for fake blog posts made her feel antsy, like they were wasting time; the other party after Ms. Corbet, or after the tortoise, could be closing in on her at any moment. But to keep Ms. Corbet safe after the fact, they had to avoid attracting suspicion, which meant building up a good cover.

They stopped for lunch in a small village pub. Natasha struck up casual conversation with a regular and happened to mention that she and James were travel writers, collecting material for a series of blog posts that would eventually become a book. The old man was struck by the idea of his little village making it onto the Internet, and asked them a lot of questions about their work. She was pleased to see that Clint could keep up the improvisation without hesitating. By the time she finished her steak pie and Clint downed the last of his beer, the old man was half-convinced he’d read their blog somewhere.

They left the village, cut across fields, and climbed over fences, wandering apparently aimlessly, but always circling closer to the southwestern hills. By the time they’d completed two full spirals, whoever was up there should have dismissed them as a potential threat-- unless they were good. In those circumstances, the best they could hope for was that whoever was spying on Amelia Corbet had characterized them as a _known_.

She waited until their backs were to the hills to speak; the spy with a telescope might be able to read lips. “Have you seen anything?”

“I saw the light reflecting off the glass earlier, and then metal,” Clint said. “Don’t think he’s moved much. I could make the shot, but I need to get closer to make sure he’s alone. Want to know what we’re walking into— don’t want to tip someone off if he’s transmitting.”

“Do you see a way we can take him out?”

“Yeah. The caves on the backside of the hill-- I need to get closer to be sure, but I think there are rock chimneys that go all the way up. I saw some like that on the way up. I bet he doesn’t know, or if he does, doesn’t think we’d be able to climb them.”

They circled around the fields southwest of Ms. Corbet’s house one more time. When they reached the back of the hill, Clint pointed up, and she nodded, seeing the holes in the side of the rock. The hill was steep; in places they had to use their hands for balance. They watched upwards for signs that the spy was moving, or had seen them. If they were sighted, they could carry on a loud and enthusiastic conversation about the caves.

They ducked inside the highest cave. They both had to bend over to get past the mouth, but once inside, it widened considerably. Clint took a flashlight from one of his pockets and played the beam of light around the walls. No one else there, and no signs of recent habitation. He turned the flashlight off again, and waited. “There,” he murmured after a minute. Natasha’s eyes hadn’t fully adjusted, but she saw he was pointing farther into the cave. “Natural light.”

He took the lead, because his eyes were better. The cave branched, and Clint needed the darkness to determine where the light was coming from. That meant no flashlight. Natasha walked carefully, fingers trailing along the wall for balance. After about three minutes, she could see the light Clint had been talking about, a change in the gloom ahead. She was glad it was dark, so he didn’t see her amazement at how he’d picked that out from the mouth of the cave. 

It was another five minutes to the rock chimney. Clint put his bag down and looked up. At the bottom, it was wide enough for him to squeeze through, but the light coming in made it hard to tell where it narrowed. 

“Do you want me to make the climb?” She had more experience making difficult vertical infiltrations, and she was smaller.

He strapped his quiver to his hip and his bow to his back. “Noise of the gunshot would carry. You’d have to get pretty close for a knife.”

That wasn’t a problem; she could do close.

“I want to take him alive if we can.”

A tranq arrow would be more effective than incapacitating the other spy with a knife, and less messy. She stepped back as he jumped straight up, grabbed the bottom of the chimney with his hands, and started to haul himself up. 

He climbed slowly, but steadily. The chimney was narrow enough that he could brace himself against each wall. At one point it narrowed; he stopped making upward progress, instead wiggling from side to side. Finally he squeezed through with an intake of breath that she heard down below. Had he lost skin there?

It would not be quick for her to return the way they’d come. The chimney was narrow enough that he wasn’t going to fall on her head; she balanced both bags on her hips, jumped up, grabbed the lip of the tunnel, and started to climb.

He heard her coming, glanced down, and then went back to finding the next good handhold. She didn’t have his upper body strength, but she had enough; she was used to scaling things, and she could squeeze through tighter corners. Her eyes came level with the spot where Clint had gotten stuck. There were spots of blood on the rock. She moved the bags to the top of her head, and made it through without tearing her clothes.

She looked up as Clint made it through the top, shook out his bow, and planted his feet. He drew an arrow, nocked it, and pulled back the string. It felt odd, and a little uncomfortable, for her to be watching. He’d once gone through that exact set of motions with her as his target. It was a sentimentality she should have been far past… but she wasn’t. Clint Barton was exactly as unflustered, observant, and confident with a bow as he was the rest of the time, maybe more.

She was about five feet from the top when he released the arrow. She watched for his reaction. He squinted, then nodded once. “Got him.” He squatted to give her a hand up. She handed him his bag, slung her own over her shoulder, and they took off at a run for the outcropping where the spy’d been watching.

Clint’s arrow had stuck in the man’s bicep, away from anything vital, and he’d fallen on his other side in the dirt. Beside him were a high-powered telescope and a bag. Clint rolled him over and checked his vitals as she went through the bag. Food, water, a rain jacket, a blanket, and a cell phone. A gun-- but not loaded. No ammo, even. Who exactly had Clint just knocked out? A master of unarmed combat... or an unfortunate bystander? She looked at the phone— a burner, with one number programmed into it.

Clint rolled the man onto his back; she squatted on his other side. He was young, and would have blended into most English crowds: medium height, brown hair, fair, freckled skin. No earpiece. She checked his pocket for weapons, and found a wallet instead. She expected it to hold a good fake and not much more-- but there were a bunch of small bills, an ID card for James Murray, a university ID for the University of Warwick, a library card, a bank card, a loyalty card for Tesco, and another for a coffee chain. She took his picture and texted HQ: _ID._

Clint pulled out his arrow, checked the tip, and rinsed it with water from the man’s bottle. The tranq had a small, soft tip, not barbed, meant to penetrate shallowly and be easily removed. Clint washed out the wound and tied it up with a bandage from his pockets. Clint held up the man’s right wrist, then his left, and examined his hands. “He doesn’t have gun calluses.”

They looked at each other. She held up the wallet. Clint's eyebrows went up. “... huh.”

“What can you see from here?”

Clint tossed her some rope, and picked up the scope, wriggling on his stomach into the same position Murray had been using. She bound his ankles and his wrists, then tied both sets of restraints together with another long piece; his limbs weren’t contorted in an unnatural position, but his life would be difficult if he tried to escape. Clint looked through the scope. “That must be the place,” he said. “Small cottage, four rooms. Canvases all over the place. Easels. No vehicle, though, and nothing that looks complete. She’s still gone, probably selling her stuff.”

“Do you see the—“

“No.” He shifted a little. “Hang on, something’s moving. Yeah, there’s some sort of… pen in the back room. There’s lots of lettuce on the floor. Can’t imagine she’d leave him alone for long, but if she gave him as much as he’d eat in her absence, she’ll be gone a while longer.”

“We should move now, while we have the opportunity.” 

“What about him?” Clint nudged their prisoner with his foot.

Natasha looked down. She was okay with slitting his throat, if necessary; it wasn’t much different from Clint shooting him in the back, and if Clint felt otherwise, he didn’t have to look. But she didn’t really _want_ to kill him unless she had to, now that no one was paying her to do it. More importantly, they still didn’t know who he was, or how badly his employers wanted him back. “We’ll take him with us.”

They didn’t have the car, or the skateboards, or the van that they needed. Clint gathered Murray's gear, making it look like the little outcropping had never been inhabited. Then he checked him under his eyelid for signs that he was waking up, checked his bonds, and slung him over his shoulder. 

He walked along the ridge; she started down the near side of the hill. It was about ten minutes to the cottage. Once inside the fence, she circled around to the back, careful not to leave footprints. She picked the lock easily, slipped inside, and locked it behind her. The inside of the cottage was unusually warm-- probably for the tortoise. The back room was occupied by a large wooden box, about the size of four playground sandboxes, but full of hay. Eloise was munching on lettuce leaves. He looked up at Natasha with momentary suspicion, then went back to his food. There wasn’t much poop in the box for a creature that large. Had Corbet been back and left again? Natasha went to the kitchen and checked the cupboards. They were almost bare. So she was on a resupply trip, in addition to selling her paintings.

It would take a while for Clint to get back to the car, find a suitable van to steal, and return. Maybe they should have stolen the van in a population center and risked it being discovered while they staked out the cottage. Too late for that now. 

How did Corbet get the tortoise to the vet? Did it never leave the house? Did the vet make house calls? She wished S.H.I.E.L.D.’s intelligence had said what kind of vehicle she drove. A van like the one they were going to steal? If the tortoise had been in the family for generations, they would have worked out some way to move him…

She moved back to the pen and looked at Eloise. Eloise munched his lettuce and stared balefully back at her. Natasha stepped back— and then saw the long leash, hanging from the wall by the door.

A _leash_. The tortoise was walked on a _leash_. She’d seen a lot of strange— and terrible— things, but this still made her shake her head. On a peg next to the leash was some sort of harness, which was even more bizarre. Where did one _get_ these things? Were they custom-made? Had the Corbets called up their local tanner and asked him to come take careful measurements of their tortoise?

She made herself focus and reached for the harness. It went over the head, behind the front feet, and had long straps that fastened behind the rear feet. There was also a strap that went around the middle, presumably to make it harder for Eloise to escape if he hid inside his shell. She picked it up, and eyed Eloise. Would he come with her if she managed to get it on him? Would he fit through the door? She looked around, and saw that the front door had been enlarged. It was now wide enough for a large tortoise.

And then what, once she got him out? Hide in the hills until Clint came back? Moving at the speed of a tortoise, she’d be vulnerable, if Corbet or anyone else came around. If someone attacked them, there’d be absolutely no chance of a getaway.

A noise outside— an engine. _Shit_. With Clint gone, she hadn’t had a lookout. Was it Corbet coming back or someone else? She ducked as a jalopy went past the window and pulled into the back. She couldn’t leave by the deadbolted front door without leaving it suspiciously unlocked— she opened a closet, found the very bottom space empty, folded herself uncomfortably inside, and pulled the door closed just as the key turned in the back door.

She hoped this wasn’t where Corbet stored her groceries. She’d seen linens, in her brief glimpse of the closet’s contents, but the bottom space could have been for dry goods. Light footsteps, then the humming of a low alto voice. “Hey, Eloise,” the woman said in an accented voice. “You haven’t been eating much.”

Eloise didn’t respond. Amelia Corbet kept up the one-sided conversation as she shuffled around the pantry, putting the groceries away. “I sold all my paintings. Plenty of money to get us through the next year.” More shuffling. “Too many people in Bristol. I hated it. You would have hated it.” She opened and closed a cupboard. “Think I’ll make myself a cuppa.”

Natasha used the running tap as cover for rearranging herself into a slightly more comfortable position. The closet was too small for an adult to fit inside; only someone like her, trained from childhood to be flexible, could have managed it. And if she stayed here much longer, her joints were going to freeze up, making it difficult to get out quickly and quietly.

Corbet came into the room Natasha was in. Natasha saw her feet and shins from underneath the closet door; she hoped her black clothes, and the darkness of the closet, prevented Corbet from seeing her. The armchair creaked, and she heard the newspaper rustle. Only a section or two had been spread over the chair; maybe Corbet would finish it quickly and do something else.

Time stretched on. Natasha knew her perception of time was altered by the discomfort of her present circumstances, but that didn’t make the waiting any more pleasant. The cottage was quiet except for the rustle of the newspaper and the occasional scuffling sound from Eloise’s pen. Occasionally Corbet commented on something in the paper. Finally, she sighed, and there was a quiet _thunk_ , like an empty mug being set down on the floor. “Guess I’d better get the rest of the supplies in.”

Natasha counted the time it took her to make it out to the jeep and back. She considered the inside of the cottage-- was there a better place for her to hide? The cottage was open to the rafters, but there were dried plants hanging up there. Amelia Corbet might turn out to be the one person who actually did look up. She didn’t know what was in the bedroom or the bathroom; it would be foolish to leave a known hiding spot in hopes of finding something better.

Corbet closed the back door again. “Oh, Eloise,” she sighed. “Every year, the trip to the city gets worse. So many people. So busy. So many thoughts. All of them so wrapped up in what they’re doing. I wonder how they can stand it.” She paused. Eloise did not answer. “I brought you some apples, and some of the roses and hibiscus that Jennifer grows down in the valley. Would you like that?”

The footsteps moved into the kitchen and then returned. Natasha heard the sound of a knife— the apples, presumably— and the soft _thud_ of things hitting the floor of the pen. Roses and hibiscus? Did S.H.I.E.L.D. know about this? If it were up to Coulson, he probably not only knew about it but had already arranged for S.H.I.E.L.D. to take over three organic nurseries.

“Think I’m going to get some work done,” Amelia said after a few minutes. “The light’s good right now, and I had an idea on the way home. I guess that’s one good thing about driving, lots of time to think and not much to distract you. A still life— a window, a beam of sunlight, a stack of books, a pair of glasses, and a cat.” Something wooden was dragged across the floor— one of the easels. “How would you feel about a cat, Eloise? It’s very nice to have you around, but I admit, sometimes I want something to cuddle.” Silence. “I love the sun this time of year. Love to have it at my back to paint by. Maybe I would have had an easier time of it if I’d made my living as a painter somewhere that wasn’t so cloudy, all the time. But it would have been hard to emigrate with you, Eloise.”

The sun at her back— Natasha did a quick calculation about the time of the day and the orientation of the house, and realized that Corbet was sitting facing the closet door.

_Damn it_.

How soon would the sun sink below the window? Natasha tried to figure out the angle in her head. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do.

She was afraid she was going to do permanent damage to her knee joints, bent as they were. The closet was dusty, but the Red Room had taught its trainees early how to suppress bodily functions like sneezing, coughing, and hiccuping. Taught them by… Natasha stopped thinking about that. She knew how to keep herself from being discovered, and that was enough.

Since she wasn’t going anywhere, she let herself doze. She might as well rest while she could, and even in such an uncomfortable position, she could convince her mind to quiet down. She was too well-trained to move in her sleep. She…

“Widow.”

She kept herself from jerking at the voice in her ear. How much time had passed? Her internal time sense was pretty good— maybe an hour. The sun should be too low to give Corbet light, soon. “Widow, come in.”

She could still hear the scratching of the pencil on the canvas. She couldn’t speak; she risked moving enough to tap her earpiece three times. 

He understood, and updated her without asking any more questions. “I’m inbound to the cottage. Have the van. Tap three times if you’re on the premises.”

She tapped three times.

“Do you have an exit strategy for the tortoise?”

Did she? Did ‘walking it out the front door’ count as an exit strategy?

“Once for yes, twice for no.”

She tapped three times.

“It’s complicated?”

She tapped once.

“Good to know. ETA, about twenty minutes.”

Natasha got a break: about ten minutes later, Corbet turned the radio on, and made noises as if she were putting things away. Natasha risked speaking to Clint in a low voice: “Must come out front door.”

“Front door, copy.”

Corbet started chopping something in the kitchen, humming to herself as she worked. About fifteen minutes after that, there was a knock on the front door.

“What on earth.” Corbet opened the door. “Hello?” No answer. “Who’s there?” Pause. “Is this the boys from the village playing a prank?” Silence.

The sound of something large sliding along the wooden floor, and then the door closed again. “Someone left me a package, Eloise, and ran away again. I’m almost afraid to open it.” There was the sound of a knife cutting cardboard, and then—

“Good _Lord_.”

Natasha heard the sound of something hard being set down gently on wood.

“Seven skateboards?” Corbet continued.

Natasha bit down on her cheek to keep from laughing.

“What— Eloise, if you were going to play a prank on someone, why would you send them seven skateboards?”

Eloise did not reply.

“But it’s addressed to me and everything. Was it meant for someone else?” She set the rest down. “The postal code is a little illegible… but why didn’t the mailman stay around? And why was he delivering the post at this time of day?” A pause. “Maybe someone else got it first and thought it was meant for me, but didn’t want me to know about it?” Another pause. “It’s very strange, Eloise.”

Corbet went back to the kitchen. She didn’t usually look in the pen, as far as Nat could tell— she didn’t go over to that side of the room much. If Natasha could get out of the closet and into the back room before she was noticed, she would have time to get Eloise ready to move. But if she took the skateboards, Corbet would notice their absence immediately. Maybe the safest thing to do, though the most tedious, was wait until she went to bed. The most difficult part would be opening the front door without being heard; Natasha was fairly certain Corbet had some sort of oil in her pantry that could lubricate the hinges.

Well, the most difficult part after wrangling the four-hundred-pound tortoise.

There was a knock on the door. Corbet stopped what she was doing in the kitchen and hurried to the door. “Don’t you dare run— away…?”

“Uh, wasn’t planning to, ma’am.” It was Clint's voice.

“I don’t want any more skateboards, do you hear?”

“… uhhhh… yes, ma’am.”

Natasha was proud of him in that moment. He sounded perfectly confused. She thought that if she’d been able to see his face, it would have been flawlessly innocent.

“Someone left me a box of seven skateboards earlier and I don’t know why! Did you happen to see them?”

“As a matter of fact, I saw a kind of grey-looking sedan driving away as I was coming up the valley,” Clint said. “They went in the opposite direction. I didn’t get a look at the plates.”

“Oh.” Pause. “What do you want?” Suspicion crept into Corbet’s voice.

“My van’s got a leak. The radiator ran out of water. I was hoping you could help me.”

There was a pause.

“You’re the only building for miles, ma’am. It’s getting dark, and I don’t want to have to push my van all the way back to town.”

“You’re American, aren’t you?” Corbet said after a moment.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What are you doing all the way out here?”

“I’m a photographer,” Clint said. “I’m working on a travel series with my partner. We got separated, and I need to get back to town to find her. I think she’s sick.”

“All right,” Corbet said, “but you have to stay out there. I’ll bring the water out to you.”

“Yes, ma’am. Or— I saw you have a pump in your yard. If it’s all right with you, I’ll just use that.”

“I’ll need to show you how to work it.” The door closed.

Natasha opened the door, forced her cramped, numb limbs into motion, crawled silently out, and stretched quickly so her body wouldn’t give her any surprises. Then she took the harness and leash from their pegs on the wall and jumped over the low gate.

Eloise turned his head to look at her, but didn’t react— and didn’t pull back into his shell. Apparently decades of human contact had socialized him. She had to lift each one of his feet to get him into the harness. He stretched his neck over her arm and went on eating. She was afraid it was going to be difficult to move him, but after she took the gate out of the door, he ambled after her. Slowly. Nervewrackingly slowly. Was Clint going to detain Corbet long enough?

She eased the front door open slowly, ready to make a mad dash for hiding and let Corbet assume the tortoise had gotten out on his own. But Clint had the hood of the van open and was shining the light from the torch inside. “… different from American parts,” he was saying. “Don’t know what I’m looking for. Or at.”

“It’s this bit here,” Corbet said, as Natasha crept silently through the door, leading Eloise behind her. Seven steps until they were around the side of the house— six, five, four, three— and she’d overestimated, and she and Eloise were both safe behind the wall. The window in this wall was at the other end, over the kitchen sink, and if they stayed where they were, Corbet wouldn’t be able to see them through it.

After a few minutes she heard Clint say, “Okay. Thanks very much, ma’am. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Good luck, young man. I hope you find your friend.”

“Thanks! Have a good evening.” A van door slammed, and then the engine started. Natasha listened carefully for the front door. As soon as she heard it close, she tugged Eloise into motion. They moved back around the corner and headed for the front gate, which was the only way out besides dismantling the fence or lifting a four-hundred-pound reptile over it. If Corbet checked on Eloise and discovered him missing, or noticed the harness and leash were gone… 

Nat took a hard right as soon as they were through, and then the van was back, gliding quietly to a stop between Natasha and the cottage. If Amelia still had the radio on, she probably wouldn’t hear it. Clint jumped out, opened the side door, and pressed a button to lower the wheelchair lift. With every second it took to lower the lift, lead Eloise onto it, and raise it again, she waited for a shout from the cottage. The lift strained-- she was afraid it wouldn’t be able to carry the weight-- but then it kept going, carrying Eloise into the van. Natasha jumped in after him and shut the door. Clint took off.

“I should have brought some of the lettuce.” She watched Eloise look around. “I guess he’ll be fine.” She looked around the van herself, and found a body in the back: Murray. He was tied differently now, and there was a clean bandage on his arm, which meant he wasn’t dead and Clint had been looking after him. As she watched, he opened his eyes, saw her, saw the giant tortoise, stared at it for a minute, shrugged, and closed his eyes again. Natasha smiled. 

They bounced over the dirt track through the hills. She didn’t know where they were going, or where the car was, but she trusted Clint. And she wasn’t going to ask in front of Murray. Instead she watched Eloise look around again and then settle in for the ride, moonlight gleaming softly off his shell.

Off the _right side_ of his shell.

She frowned and leaned forward. Maybe she was seeing things. But no— she was looking at exactly what she thought. She stared hard, then leaned around the front passenger seat and grabbed the flashlight.

“Something wrong?” Clint asked.

Natasha wasn’t sure yet. She shone the flashlight on Eloise’s shell and looked carefully. Then she climbed over him and looked on the other side. Nothing. “This is the wrong tortoise.”

Clint swerved and then corrected. “How can it be the _wrong tortoise_? Did she have another one?” he demanded.

“No!”

“How can it possibly be the wrong tortoise?!”

“He doesn’t have the repaired cut-out in his shell.”

“You must have missed it.”

“Then get back here and look for yourself.” _Hawkeye._

He looked over his shoulder with something like a glare, pulled around the back of a rock, stopped, turned off the van, and squeezed between the seats. She handed him the flashlight and sat back to give him space. He moved the light from the flashlight over Eloise’s shell once… and then again. He climbed over to check the other side. He knelt by Eloise and examined the shell up close. Then he felt every inch with his fingertips.

Finally he looked up. “This is the wrong tortoise.”

Because he was her partner, Natasha did _not_ say I told you so. She did say, “Shit.”

They looked at each other.

“She called it Eloise,” Natasha said. “Either she knew I was there the whole time, or she was unaware of the switch.”

Clint rubbed his face. “I gotta tell you, I have no idea how we’re going to track down a _different_ 400-pound tortoise. That vanished an unknown number of years ago. Even if he’s still alive.”

“Could our, uh, bosses have been wrong about the shell marking?”

“Wrong?” Clint gave her a skeptical look. “About a detail, that guy?”

“Point.” After a moment, she said, “Whoever he was working for didn’t know about the switch, either. Not if they were watching her.” She jerked his head towards the bound man in the back of the van.

“Maybe we better—“ Clint straightened up.

“Yeah,” she agreed. She followed him out of the van and out of earshot of their prisoner. “The terrorists wouldn't steal Eloise. They already have the code.”

“Maybe they wanted the key out of anyone else’s reach.”

“Easier just to kill him. If they thought Corbet could have been tortured for information, they would have killed her too.”

“Yeah,” Clint said after a minute. “So, we have another unknown group who kidnapped the tortoise, we don’t know when, and, probably, cracked the code already.” “

“But why go to the trouble of replacing the tortoise?”

“Didn’t want anyone else to know they were on to it, I guess,” Clint said. “ _If_ the terrorists were watching this place, too, or _if_ the other group thought they were, they wouldn’t have wanted to alert them that the code had been broken.”

“How the hell did all these people figure out that the code was hidden _in a tortoise_?”

“We don’t actually know that the code _is_ in the tortoise.”

“Bloody fuck,” Natasha muttered. “And Murray? He can’t be working with the tortoise thieves— unless they wanted to make sure no one else figured it out.”

“Same with the terrorists. But that would be an awfully long shot for them to waste manpower on.”

“We need to find out who he’s working for.” Before Clint could say anything, she added, “I’ll do it.”

“Okay,” he said after a minute. Then: “There’s another angle. Maybe we can’t find Eloise, but I bet we can find out where… not-Eloise, there, came from. Can’t be many hundred-year-old tortoises in the world. And he has to be the same kind as Eloise, or Corbet would have noticed.”

“Sounds like the sort of logistical thing Coulson would be good at figuring out.”

“Yeah. I’ll get in touch with him.” He hesitated. “I’ll grab my phone.”

They went back to the van. Clint grabbed his pack off the front seat and then took a few steps around the van, looking awkward.

“Can you give us a few minutes,” Natasha said.

“Right.” He stepped away— but not out of earshot.

Murray had closed his eyes at her words; he looked resigned and fearful. She crouched over him, letting his fear build; that would be useful. “I want to know who you work for,” she said. “I’m pretty good at finding these things out. You can make this easier on yourself if you want.” She pulled the gag out.

“You don’t need to torture me,” the man rasped. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I don’t know who the hell you people are or what you want. I just want to go home.”

She’d seen people say a lot of convincing shit to get out of torture. “Who hired you to sit on that hill and watch the cottage?”

“My uncle.”

_What the hell_. She raised her hand to punch—

“You can hit me all you want,” he said, sounding scared, but also resigned, “but all you’re going to do is give me a good reason to think up a really convincing lie.”

She lowered her hand. She could work with this, for now. “Who’s your uncle?”

“Graham Verges. He’s an anthropologist. At Warwick.”

_What_. “Why did an anthropologist hire you to spy on that woman?”

“Me, because I wouldn’t turn him in, obviously, and he knew I needed the money. I don’t know what he wanted with her.”

Natasha wasn't convinced. “And the gun?”

“He gave it to me. Said I might meet some people and I should wave it at them until they went away.”

“Did you realize it wasn't loaded?”

“I don't know how to use it anyway.”

People usually didn’t _volunteer_ information to her like that. She could put him in pain and see what story he told then, but how would she know if he were just making it up to end the torture? Her instincts and experience said he was telling the truth. She decided to take a chance. “Take us to your uncle, and if he gives us what we need to know, we’ll let you go.”

“Okay,” he said, with no resistance at all. 

That was _much_ easier than she’d expected it to be. 

He must have sensed her sudden suspicion: “He _set me up_ to be captured by… um… you. He said it would be a quiet watching job! He didn’t say anything about being shot-- with—“ He tried to twist around to look at his arm. “What the hell _was_ that?”

She suppressed a smile. “Something pointy.”

“Oh, thanks,” he muttered. “I had no idea.”

She again restrained a smile— she could appreciate spunk, when it wasn’t directly interfering with her work— but straightened up. He turned his head to look up at her. “Could I have some water?”

She considered for a moment. “Sure.” She pulled him far enough upright that he wouldn’t choke, and held a water bottle to his lips. He drank greedily. She let him have as much as he wanted. Then she capped the water bottle and checked on the tortoise. He was still doing fine, or seemed to be; she couldn’t really tell. She’d looped the leash loosely around the bottom of the driver’s seat, in case he tried to wander off, but he didn’t seem inclined to go anywhere.

She jumped out of the van and went after Clint. He was finishing up what sounded like a pretty one-sided conversation with Coulson: “Yes, sir.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “Yes, sir.” He saw her coming and made a wry face. She smirked. She could imagine how Coulson had taken the news that they’d kidnapped the wrong tortoise. “Right away, sir. Yes, sir.”

He hung up. She raised an eyebrow. 

“Coulson wasn’t, uh, pleased. He wants us to find the other tortoise ASAP. He’s calling in a favor for us to take this one for DNA testing, tell us where it came from.”

“While we’re waiting on that, I have a lead.” She tilted her head back toward the van. “He gave me his name, and told me who sent him. An anthropologist.”

Clint gave her a skeptical look.

“I think he’s telling the truth.”

“Why would an anthropologist want to watch Amelia Corbet?”

“I don’t know. I think we should ask him.”

“How’d you get him to tell you that?”

“I asked nicely.” Natasha smiled sweetly. She could see that Clint didn’t believe her. That was okay. It was closer to the truth than not, but she didn’t want to encourage him to be curious about her methods.

“Fine. You know where we’re going?”

“Yes. I told our spy if his anthropologist gave us what we needed, we’d let him go.”

“You think that’s wise?”

“Either he’s snowing me,” Natasha said, “or he’s in over his head. He doesn’t have any calluses. Doesn’t know how to stand up to torture.” She left unsaid that it was pretty damn hard to snow her, but Clint didn’t need to be told.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Her phone _ping_ ed: S.H.I.E.L.D. had come back with an ID. James Anthony Murray. The details matched everything from his wallet. She used S.H.I.E.L.D.’s tools to find him and Verges on the university website, then on Facebook. It could be a set-up, but if it were, it was a complex set-up. It was hard to fool S.H.I.E.L.D. that thoroughly-- they'd even gotten rudimentary data on her, before Klaipeda. It was possible that S.H.I.E.L.D. had a mole who'd set up fake identities for the tortoise-watchers in the event that someone found them, but it wasn't very likely.

Clint’s phone vibrated with a text from Coulson. _Tortoise to loading dock at back of biology building, University of Warwick. Contact: Dr. Madaline Worcroft._ “That’s a nice coincidence.” They could drop off the tortoise and visit Verges at the same time.

The prisoner and the tortoise were both silent as they reached a road, then a main road. She glanced sideways at Clint, wondering again where he’d gotten the van and how long they had before it started attracting attention. “How hot is our ride?”

“Took it off a family that just left for vacation. They’ll be gone another ten days.”

“How do you know?”

“There was a hold mail notice in their mailbox.”

“That was stupid.”

Clint shrugged. “We get the tortoise to Warwick, ditch the van or take it back, someone’ll find it, it’ll be there when they get back.”

She’d noticed that Clint really didn’t like screwing over innocent bystanders, not just by getting them in the line of fire, but by taking something they needed to live. Well— correction. Clint didn’t like screwing over innocent bystanders unless they were rich, and then he didn’t care.

She turned in her seat and looked at their cargo. “How often do tortoises need to eat?”

“Every day or so.”

That was fine, then. “Corbet’s probably alerted the police to the van by now.”

“Nearest police’s half an hour from her. Her phone service is bad. She never saw the plate on the back and I splashed mud on the front one before I stopped. Wiped it off back there.”

Natasha nodded, mollified. They’d made it safely to a highway; without a license plate number that would incriminate them, they were just another anonymous white van. She checked on their prisoner. He’d maneuvered his bound hands under his head, and appeared to be asleep. That was a good idea. She pulled her feet up on to the seat and closed her eyes.

She woke up when Clint braked hard and took a corner on fewer than four wheels. “Try not to get pulled over for reckless driving.” She didn't open her eyes.

“We’re here.”

She looked around. They were parked in a narrow alley behind a tall building. It was the middle of the night; the alley was lit by one flickering lamp. As she watched, the door to the loading dock rose ponderously on its tracks.

“I’ll check it out.” She checked her weapons and climbed out. The bay beyond the door was dark. She hesitated outside, giving her eyes time to adjust, and whoever was inside time to shoot at her. When no bullets came, she climbed the stairs and stepped inside. A woman was standing by the controls on the wall, arms folded over her chest. 

She didn’t look happy. “Your boss told me to expect you.”

Natasha took another cautious step. “You're here to take something off our hands?”

“If by ‘something’ you mean a DNA sample, yes.”

“We don't want you to be short of materials.”

Even in the dark, she could see the woman’s expression turned to resigned dismay. “He never said I had to take the whole--” She sighed. “Next time I see him, I’m going to _kill him_. No. Actually. If I ever see him again, it’ll be too soon.”

Natasha smothered a grin. “Do you have the facilities to hold the, uh, whole package?”

“I’ll call in a favor with our herpetologist,” the woman sighed again.

Natasha waved to Clint. He pulled into the loading dock, activated the wheelchair lift, and lowered the gate. Not-Eloise ambled out slowly, halting when he noticed his new surroundings. He stopped half on the lift, and half off. Clint and Natasha looked at each other. “On three?”

“No. Wait,” Worcroft said. “I’ll get one a cargo dolly.”

Between the three of them, they got not-Eloise off the lift and onto the large, reinforced flat cart, which was kinder than dragging him across the concrete. The woman tried to push the cart, and couldn’t. 

“We’ll get you as far as the elevator.” Natasha pushed on the other side of the handle. Clint stepped up to the woman’s left. Between the three of them, they got the cart into the freight elevator. Clint rode up to make sure she got off the elevator as well; while he was gone, Natasha looked around, and wondered exactly what Coulson had done for this woman to make her owe him. Then she found an address for Graham Verges. At this hour, he should be home in bed. Even better, he was unmarried and childless.

They headed across town, still in the van; Verges lived in a small detached house in the outskirts. They parked in a back alley a block away. Natasha pulled James out of the van, propped him up, and cut his bonds. He rubbed his hands and wrists, looking pained. She hadn’t tied the ropes tightly enough to cut off his circulation, and Clint wouldn't have, either-- either James was a very thorough actor, or he wasn’t used to being tied up. When he could walk, they sent him first. Natasha followed him, guns away but easily accessible. Clint followed her.

Murray stopped at the back door. “I don’t have a key, but I don’t imagine that’s going to stop you,” he said drily.

Clint covered him while Natasha picked the lock. “Does your uncle have a security system?” 

“Not last time I was here.”

The first floor was a kitchen, a couple of small living rooms, and a bathroom. James pointed upstairs. “His study and bedroom’s up there,” he murmured. Then he frowned, hard. “You’re not going to... kill him, are you?”

“I thought you didn’t care,” Natasha said.

“I said I didn’t want to get tortured for whatever he’d done. I don't want him to die.”

“He’s more useful to us alive,” she said. “We want to know what he knows.”

James looked alarmed, and quietly mutinous. They’d have to watch him, but she knew that Clint had seen the same thing she had. They went single file up the stairs: her first, then Murray, then Clint. She trusted Clint to watch Murray, keep him from deliberately stepping on the creaky stairs, and keep him from attacking her from behind. There were three doors coming off the hallway at the top of the stairs, and she didn’t need Murray to tell her which was which: the one to her right smelled of old books, and water was dripping on porcelain in the one straight ahead. All of them were dark, which meant Verges was asleep behind the door on the left.

The mutiny happened: as she turned, James lunged forward at her. Clint grabbed him, hard enough to change the direction of his momentum, and they fell towards the bathroom door. Natasha trusted that Clint would deal with it and darted through the door before the noise could wake their target. Behind her, there was a crash and a grunt— the man asleep started and sat upright. He was fast— unusually fast— but she was faster, and had her gun trained on him while he was still feeling for his. The bathroom door slammed— “Clear,” Clint said softly, so she’d know it was him. She cocked her gun so that Verges would hear the click, if he couldn’t see the gun. “Don’t move,” she ordered him. “Hand out from under the pillow, slowly.”

He did so, slowly, trying to squint at her. The light coming in from the window fell towards the bed, not towards her, giving her the advantage. There was a dragging sound from the hall, and then a _thunk_ ; Clint wedging a chair under the door handle. “Who the hell are you?” Verges demanded.

She circled the bed, gun still trained on him. Then she leaned forward, reached under his pillow. and pulled that gun out. “Handguns have been banned here for ten years, Dr. Verges. Even before that, this model was never sold on the open market.”

“Got it from a friend,” the doctor said shakily. “Had a break-in last year. Came home to find them fleeing out the window. They fired shots. I was terrified.”

“Not unless your ‘friend’ used to work for the special forces. The gun you gave your nephew was the same kind.”

“James? What have you done to James?!”

“Nothing.” Well, not much, in the grand scheme of things. “Though if we had tortured and killed him, as you are so vividly imagining right now, it would have been no less than you expected.”

“I just asked him to keep an eye on the house.”

“Why?” And then she put the pieces together, and berated herself for not seeing it before. “Let me rephrase that. I know you’re a real anthropologist. I read one of your papers on the way over here—“

“Oh? Which one?” Verges forgot everything else in his academic curiosity.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. _Scientists: terrible at self-preservation._ “— so who hired you, to make sure Amelia Corbet didn’t realize you’d swapped out her tortoise?”

“You could probably get the information out of me if you tried,” Verges said, “but don’t expect me to make it easy for you.”

She tilted her head and frowned, pretending to consider. “I don’t think there’s anything you could do to make it _difficult_ for me.”

The bathroom door crashed open. Clint, who was out of Verges’ sight behind the bedroom door, whirled and easily blocked James when he tried to slug him. “What’ve you done to my uncle!” he demanded, pushing into the bedroom.

“You _led them here_?” Verges demanded in return, his previous concern vanishing.

“You set me up to get captured by gun-toting maniacs!” James cried, his voice cracking. “What the hell is going on? Who are you working for? _What did you get me into?_ ”

She caught Clint’s eye. “I think we can leave this touching family reunion.”

“What?” James said. “Oh my God, are you taking me with you, because I won’t let you—“

“Decided I wasn’t worth your time?” Verges said, with a sardonic sneer.

“No. Your gun told me everything I needed to know.” She slipped the pistol into her waistband.

“I’m calling police on you,” James muttered. “You _kidnapped_ me.”

Clint snorted. “We _are_ law enforcement.”

Verges, who hadn’t seen Clint, jumped. “Yeah?” he demanded. “By whose authority? What’s your jurisdiction?”

“Our jurisdiction is everywhere, and our authority is unlimited,” Clint said gravely, though she could tell he was trying not to smirk. It did have a pompous ring to it.

She and Clint didn’t do anything as obvious as make eye contact. They just knew when to go. She lunged across the bed and hit Verges in the head with the butt of his own gun; he fell sideways onto the mattress, unconscious. Clint grabbed James— they struggled for a moment— then Clint got a hand free, slugged him in the temple, and caught him as he fell. Saving his last tranquilizer arrow was probably a good call.

Clint guarded them, in case they woke up, while she searched the bedroom and then the study. She found rope in a bottom drawer— lots of good, strong rope that had no place in most people’s sock collection— and tossed it to Clint. He tied them securely while she looked through the papers in the study, cloned Verges’ phone, and copied his hard drive. If she was right about Verges’ secret second employer, the important files would turn out to be encrypted, but S.H.I.E.L.D. would learn a lot when they eventually, and inevitably, cracked them.

They slipped out, but didn’t return to the van. With Fake Eloise off their hands, they didn’t need it any more, and it was too conspicuous. They took a circuitous route, making sure Murray and Verges weren’t tailing them, and then found an out-of-the-way clearing.

They sat back-to-back, so they could watch all the approaches. She called Coulson, put the phone on speaker, and held it at shoulder-level. “The spy is James Murray, hired by Graham Verges, an anthropologist at Warwick,” she said when he answered. “We paid him a visit. He had some high-powered equipment that probably came from SAS, or the secret service.”

“I heard from Dr. Worcroft,” Coulson said. “She hasn’t gotten the results yet, but she told me that the London Zoo had one of their giant tortoises stolen last week. I called the caretaker. The description matches what Dr. Worcroft gave me. I think we’ve found our tortoise source.”

Natasha imagined the conversation between a sleepy, bewildered tortoise-keeper, and Coulson. “I think Verges was working for whoever made the swap. They needed to make sure Corbet didn’t realize what had happened.”

“So,” Coulson said. “We’re looking for a member of the British secret service who’s clever enough to figure out the significance of the tortoise, good enough to pull off the swap, and manipulative enough to have an apparently unconnected anthropologist under his— or her— thumb.”

Natasha frowned. He sounded _resigned_.

“You sound like you have someone in mind, sir,” Clint said.

“I do.” There was no mistaking the tone now. “Get to London. We have an appointment.”

*

The light from the hallway illuminated the doorway as the woman opened it. She stopped where she was, not presenting herself as a target. She was good.

— and then she stepped inside and hit the lights. “Agent Coulson, your cologne is conspicuous.”

“Captain Malcolm,” Coulson acknowledged.

She smiled, a tight, wry expression. “You know that’s not my rank any more.”

“I like to be courteous.”

“Which is why you’re in my seat?”

Coulson stood, stepped back, and gestured to the chair he’d just vacated. “By all means.”

Natasha kept her expression blank, but her sense of curiosity was piqued. Coulson leaned against the wall and folded his arms, managing to look just as much in control there as seated behind that ridiculously large desk. Malcolm came forward into the light, and took the chair. She was a tall woman, with grey-streaked red hair, and several small but telling scars on her face. Natasha watched her move and cataloged the number and location of her weapons.

Malcolm looked to the right, at her and Clint, though Natasha knew she’d been aware of them as soon as she entered. “I do believe I could put a name to both your faces.”

Neither of them responded.

Her gaze lingered on Natasha. “So you ended up with S.H.I.E.L.D., after you went off the radar? Were you working for them when you killed the minister and her husband?”

Natasha returned her gaze evenly and without expression. It was Coulson who said, “Surely your sources are good enough to tell you.”

Malcolm raised one thin eyebrow. “Why are you here, Agent Coulson?”

“The curious case of the misplaced tortoise. It would make a good title for a mystery novel.”

Natasha was watching her carefully, but Malcolm didn’t react at all. “I’m quite certain you didn’t turn up in my office at half nine in the evening to talk about detective literature.”

“It must have taken a lot of careful legwork to track down what happened to Sir Vincent Corbet’s cypher,” Coulson said.

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Your contractor, however, was sloppy. Dr. Verges sent his own nephew to watch the house. The boy didn’t even know how to use a gun.”

“Speaking hypothetically, of course, not every situation is intended to turn violent.”

“Why _are_ you outsourcing? What did Dr. Verges ever do to you?”

“That’s a trade secret, Agent Coulson.” Malcolm gave a smile that should have looked sweet but managed to look the exact opposite. Natasha filed the expression away carefully in her memory. She could always use more weaponized smiles.

“Pity. I’m sure it’s a fascinating story.”

“Oh, it is.” Malcolm’s smile slid away. “I assume you’re here because you want the code.”

Coulson smiled. “You didn’t think I brought two of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best infiltration experts on a social call, did you?”

“… ah.” Malcolm looked in their direction. Natasha worked hard to project an air of trying not to be smug. The code was next to her skin, in the plastic bag the vet had put it in when he’d removed it from Eloise’s shell.

“Thank you for doing the hard part, by the way,” Coulson said. “It’s a lot harder to move a tortoise than a piece of paper.”

“Quite,” Malcolm agreed drily. “You still haven’t explained why you’re here.”

“I want to know what MI-6 plans to do about the terrorists.”

“Why should I tell you?”

Coulson smiled again. “We walked into one of the most secure buildings in the country and made it to your office without being noticed. Asking you is really just a courtesy.”

Malcolm steepled her fingers in front of her face. “Surveillance. We’ve no desire to tip our hand. And what does _S.H.I.E.L.D._ plan to do about the terrorists?”

“We’re undecided. If we make a decision, you’ll read about it in the papers.”

Malcolm raised her eyebrow again. “Getting sloppy, then?”

“Are you going to send Eloise back?”

“Yes. There’s no point in drawing unnecessary attention to Amelia Corbet.”

“No,” Coulson agreed. “Not like, say, posting an inexperienced and conspicuous _student_ as her guard.”

“You’re the expert on inconspicuity,” Malcolm murmured, looking down. 

Natasha sensed the trap, but Coulson didn’t. “I try,” he said modestly.

“Not hard enough,” Malcolm said drily. “You were caught on camera sneaking out of the loo where you exited the ceiling. Sloppy, Agent Coulson.”

Natasha cataloged Coulson’s expression too, because it wasn’t often she saw him taken aback, even temporarily. “I stand chastised.”

“That must be a new experience.”

“We have what we came for,” Coulson said. “I’d hate to keep you from your work. I imagine you have several pressing things to attend to.”

“As always.” Malcolm's bantering mask seemed to slip a bit, and she looked tired.

Coulson headed for the door. Clint and Natasha followed, not turning their backs on Malcolm, even though Coulson, apparently, was comfortable enough to do so. 

Malcolm spoke again when they were at the door: “Phil.” 

Coulson stopped, turning back. 

“Did you ever get a bill for the damage we did to that hotel room in Bangalore?”

“No,” Coulson said, after a conspicuous moment. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. Did you?”

“No.”

“Funny.”

“Yes, I thought so. Well. Don’t let me keep you.”

Coulson didn’t retort to the clear dismissal. Natasha stayed tense as they retraced their steps back through MI-6, not believing that Malcolm would just let them go. But no one stopped them. Had Malcolm warned security not to interfere?

She didn’t need Coulson’s warning to know that they were being tailed. _If she_ knows _you, why is she bothering?_ If they caught them in the right circumstances, though, MI-6 could still get lucky-- and steal back the code-- with sheer numbers. She watched for a second, much less conspicuous tail, but Clint spotted her first. “Up on the roof,” he murmured. “You want me to take care of her?”

Coulson pointed down the road as if he were saying something about directions, but actually said, “MI-6 wouldn’t take it very well if we shot one of their people. Widow?”

“On it.” She palmed her lockpicks and found a building with a long overhang. They wandered under the overhang as if they were just trying to stay out of the street. She got the nearest door unlocked and open in about twenty seconds. It wasn’t going to take the spy long to figure what had happened. Natasha'd chosen well, though— the shop had both a rear door and a stairwell. “Up or out?”

“Romanoff, up. Barton, with me.” He tossed her some paracord. As she headed for the back of the shop, he and Clint went back the way they’d come. “Damn it, locked.” His voice was just loud enough to carry.

The staircase took her to the top floor. There was a trapdoor in the ceiling that led to the attics, but she didn’t remember seeing any higher windows. Cutting a hole in the roof was not her first choice. Instead she opened a window and leaned out backwards until she could grab the edge of the roof. Then she got purchase on the ledge with her feet and swung herself silently up.

Their tail was up ahead, keeping pace with Clint and Coulson. How had they fooled her into thinking Natasha was still with them? She crept forward, moving quickly and quietly. They were running out of roof— but down below, Clint and Coulson got the tail's attention, and she stopped moving. Natasha stayed in her blind spot and got within four feet of her before she spun. The other woman went for a gun— Natasha grabbed her wrist, flexed it, forced her hand to come up empty, used the momentum to flip the other woman over her shoulder, and had her wrists bound with two loops while she was still recovering from the landing. The other spy rolled, put her weight on her bound hands, and kicked up; Natasha dodged, came perilously close to the edge of the roof, grabbed both ankles, and swung the woman around, deflecting her momentum rather than stopping it. She bound her legs, tore a strip from her shirt, gagged her, rolled her against a chimney where she couldn’t fall, and climbed down.

When she reached the ground, Clint was just returning with an unconscious man over his shoulder— the decoy tail. He was bound, too. Clint left him at the base of the tree, where he wasn’t immediately visible from the road, and they picked up the pace. “What about CCTV?” she murmured.

“I planted a bug before we left that should keep it down for another half an hour or so,” Coulson said.

Natasha was impressed. She hadn’t even noticed. 

“You took down the whole of London’s CCTV?” Clint asked. “Isn’t that gonna catch someone else’s attention?”

“Not all of it. Just enough to get us clear. And if it catches anyone’s attention, it’ll be someone who’s wondering why the agency in charge of _foreign_ intelligence has override access to the London CCTV system.” Coulson’s smile was small, but satisfied. Did he realize how obviously he was pleased at getting one over Captain Malcolm?

They turned down a back alley. “Plans, sir?”

“We need to go to ground. I need to call this code in. While we're waiting for HQ to crack the intercepted transmissions, we'll try to put some of the pieces together. Give me your shirt,” Coulson said to Clint. “Romanoff, give me the code.”

Clint unzipped his sweatshirt, pulled his shirt over his head, and handed it to Coulson, taking the jacket and Coulson’s button-down in exchange. 

“ _Don’t_ ruin my clothes again, Barton.” Coulson sounded more resigned than hopeful.

“If I can possibly avoid it,” Clint promised solemnly. Coulson didn’t seem reassured, especially when Clint balled up the tie, stuffed it in his pocket, and slung the jacket over one shoulder.

“Your shirt doesn’t match your pants,” Natasha pointed out. Clint’s black T-shirt made a distinct contrast to Coulson’s high-end trousers. Clint and Coulson looked at each other. That might have been a long-suffering eye-roll. She kept a straight face, and politely turned her back.

Coulson rattled off an address. They split up. Coulson walked off, his stride noticeably different. She and Clint waited ninety seconds, then went the other direction and split up themselves.

They took different routes, but she arrived at the rundown hotel outside London seconds behind Clint. “First order of business,” Coulson was saying. “Barton, give me back my pants.”

Natasha turned her back to preserve their delicate honor. “I called the code in,” Coulson said. “We should be safe here. Did either of you notice anything unusual at the target's home?”

Natasha looked over her shoulder, and met Clint's gaze as he fastened his pants. A slight headshake... they both decided not to take the easy line about the tortoise. It was just too easy. “No, sir.”

“No,” she agreed. “Should we be heading out to southeast Asia? Get in place for when S.H.I.E.L.D. translates the messages?” She turned back around.

Coulson picked up his crumpled tie from the bed, looked at it mournfully, and at Clint reproachfully. “No. Something's not right here. The code was intercepted here the first time. A lot of governments have risen and fallen in southeast Asia since Sir Andrew died over that code. We'll stay here. My instincts are telling me to stay here.”

She studied him. They could split up, but in the time it took her to get around the world, a lot could happen. She wanted to go; it was the next logical move. But-- she trusted Coulson's abilities. She wouldn't force the issue. 

“How much do you trust Captain Malcolm?” Clint asked. He stretched out on one of the beds, eyes closed. She thought it would have been more convincing if he'd been looking. They all knew it wasn't a nonchalant question, and when Clint wanted information, he used his eyes.

Coulson smiled faintly. “How do you quantify trust?”

“Is she going to sell us out?” Natasha asked.

“Considering that MI-6 had the code in their possession already, it's unlikely. But anything is possible.”

“Is she going to send a hit squad after us to make sure anyone who has the code is dead?” Clint asked.

Coulson shook his head. “If she wanted us dead, she'd do it herself.”

Natasha eyed him.

That was apparently enough for Clint. “Well, _my_ instincts are telling me to take some rack time.” They'd had a full day to recover, and lay low-- it had taken Coulson time to get to London, time she hadn't understood why they'd taken until Coulson had broken into MI-6 with ease. But Clint knew enough to sleep while he could.

“Good idea.” Coulson slid past her and stretched out on the other bed.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She crossed her arms over her chest. She _might_ have thought of sharing-- at least with Clint-- in extreme circumstances, but these weren't. And the floor smelled like feet.

Her irritation didn't keep her from noticing that Coulson also trusted her near him, armed, while he was asleep. Clint was one thing-- he trusted and hoped beyond reason, sometimes. But Coulson--

“I guess I'll... take first watch, then,” she muttered.

*

“Shit.”

She woke at the quiet, forceful epithet. Something was wrong if _Coulson_ was swearing.

She was on her feet, gun in hand, searching for the trouble by the time Coulson looked up. Clint rolled over, grabbed his bow, and nocked an arrow before he opened his eyes. “What is it?”

“The code. A Filipino splinter group sold arms to German eco-terrorists, who armed radicals in the U.K.”

“Anything else?” she demanded, stuffing extra clips in her pants.

“The messages were between the Filipinos and the Germans, not the Germans and the British,” Coulson said. “We have an address where the British terrorists might have been two days ago. The police reported someone running from them ducked in there, but they didn't see him again. You two, check that out. Find them and shut them down.”

“Where are you going, sir?”

“I'm going to break into MI-5, use their equipment to trace this signal, and find the Germans.”

“Coulson--” Clint said. “Headlines on the way here, the two prime ministers are meeting today.”

Coulson looked like he wanted to swear again. “Then you'd better hurry.”

“What about evacuations? They'll want to target somewhere busy, somewhere central for maximum impact.” She shouldered a gear bag. “It's what I would do. We could get the police to close a few places.”

“We do that, they'll just set it off somewhere else,” Clint said. “Anywhere we shut down'll make people pile up in another place. You can't escape the population density here.”

He had a point. “Are they dirty bombs?” she asked Coulson.

“We don't know anything else. Why are the two of you still here?”

The address was in Kent, a rundown house on a narrow lawn. Clint took up position in a nearby tree; she stayed in the shadows, and let him watch for any signs of movement inside as she found her entrance.

There was only one blind spot. She wriggled forward on her stomach until she reached the downspout. It wasn't meant to take the weight of a person; she had to move slowly, and balance herself against the side of the building. She reached the roof and pulled herself up. Then she wriggled towards the chimney, and listened. Silence. She put her fingers at the opening and felt a slight draft. The silence wasn't because they'd blocked off the chimney. They were probably really gone, as Coulson had said; if not, they were sleeping, or they'd heard her coming.

_Here’s a riddle, Romanoff: how do you sneak into a building potentially full of volatile terrorists, who potentially have a nuclear weapon, who may not actually be there or may be armed and waiting for you to step inside?_

It wasn’t a very good riddle. Worse than Clint's.

She'd just have to be quiet, and hope the doors and windows weren't alarmed. If they were-- the one least likely to be monitored was the one in the middle of the second story wall, above a foot of crumbling wood that had once been a balcony. Even she couldn't levitate; she took the rest of Coulson's paracord, lowered herself over the edge of the eaves, and found a place where the soffit was coming loose. She pulled until she got a larger hole, and passed the cord up and around one of the exposed eaves. It was terrible for climbing, small and slippery, and it wasn't attached above the door. But she lowered herself to the level of the door, then eased sideways along the face of the wall until she could pick the lock of the door.

No alarms. She felt around the edge of the frame: no wires, no lasers. So no silent alarms, either. She closed the door behind her, and crept silently through the house.

She checked each room on the top floor and then headed downstairs. There was furniture piled haphazardly, and empty food wrappers on the floor-- someone had been here recently, but was gone, now. The sink was dry, and so was the bar of soap next to it. The power was off. She tapped her earpiece. “Confirmed, we missed them,” she muttered. “But they were definitely here.”

“What about the basement?”

“There's no basement.” She'd looked: no door leading to stairs, and the first floor wasn't elevated at all.

“There's a square slope against the house on the east side. The grass is new. I think it's outside doors to the basement, and they replanted the grass after they took something out.”

“I'll look again.”

“I'll help.”

She unlocked the front door and let him in. A minute later, he tapped her shoulder, and pointed. “Sawdust,” he mouthed.

She looked closer, knelt in front of the cabinets, and ran her fingers over the floor. Yes-- and the cabinets smelled new. She'd opened them before, but hadn't stuck her head in. Now she did, and turned on the flashlight. “There.”

The cabinet went farther back than it should have, and ended at a full-height door on casters behind the real wall. She turned off the flashlight, took her infrareds from her pocket, and tugged them over her head. Clint glowed whitely. She knew he had a pair as well, but he didn't put them on. Instead he stared, hard, inside the cabinet, and then nodded.

The door slid silently, revealing a short landing and then dark stairs. She crawled in first, then stopped; he crawled in after her and closed the cabinets behind him. He held up his hand and signaled, indicating that once they were down she should go left and he would go right. She tapped her earpiece once. 

The stairs were enclosed. She could barely see the steps-- how was he making it down? But he was more than competent to look after himself. She reached the bottom, feeling more than hearing him come after her, from the slight draft of his movement. She knelt. She could barely see stacks of crates, assembled into makeshift walls and half-walls-- but she could _smell_ , and she smelled--

Clint slammed into her. They both fell to the ground. The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. He rolled off of her immediately; she didn't think he'd been hit, but she had to prioritize survival above being sure. She sheltered behind the nearest stack of crates and peeked out of cover-- she didn't see the person, but she saw the heat they were throwing off, in the corner-- 

Something flew past her ear with a _whoosh_ and a gust of air. The _clink_ of metal on metal-- a yelp-- 

“Eyes,” Clint muttered. She pulled off her goggles and crouched out of sight as he switched his flashlight on. From her new angle, she could see the man, crouching in the corner, leg extended at an odd angle. He was trying to pull the arrow out of the barrel of his gun. When the light went on, he threw a knife at Clint, badly. It bounced off the wall. Clint already had an arrow on the string. “Don't move, or I'll pin your wrist to the floor.”

The man froze. In the light, it was obvious that his leg was broken, splinted crudely. He was surrounded by bottles of water and boxes of granola bars on one side, and empty bottles and wrappers on the other. Behind him was a stool and a covered bucket, the primitive latrine that she’d smelled from the stairs.

Clint advanced. She stayed back and covered him. “Who are you?” Clint demanded.

“I’m not going to tell you anything.” The man's accent was cultured. Despite his bravado, his hands were shaking with fear, and probably pain.

“Thousands of people will die if we don’t find out where your friends went,” Clint said. “Your life, in comparison, is worthless. You’re already hurt, alone, and defenseless. You wanna think how this is gonna go?”

The man was silent.

“You know what it feels like when a broken joint gets disturbed?” Clint continued. His voice was rough, though not enough so that the man would notice.

Natasha wanted to wince. He should have let her threaten torture. And be the one to carry it out, if it came to that. She didn’t think Clint _couldn’t_ do it, but he had some very specifically-shaped vulnerabilities, while she’d already sold her soul to that particular devil.

“My friends’ll come back for me, and then they’ll kill you.”

“So it’s not a suicide bombing. Good to know,” Clint said immediately.

She moved so she was visible and switched to Coulson's frequency. “We have new information. Not a suicide bombing. Definitely looking for something planted.” Then: “Be advised, suspects will be returning to—“ she gave the address. “Have teams ready to intercept.” They didn't have teams, but the man didn't need to know that.

“Copy.” Coulson's voice was strained--

“Thanks,” Clint said. “You’ve been pretty helpful so far. What else you got?”

The man looked devastated. She smiled sweetly at him. “Don’t worry. They might not walk into the trap. They might always abandon you.”

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” the man snapped.

She took out her phone and snapped a picture of his face before he thought to hide it. “We can ID his face and run him through C.C.T.V. to find his associates. Then do a real-time face-trace on them.”

“It's too late to stop us. London will fall, and the techno-rats will fall, and every city dweller will think twice about living in these abominations on the face of the planet!”

Natasha gave him an unimpressed look. “Speak English or shut up.”

“The concrete demons rising from the ashes of the forests, the miles and miles of human waste, the rivers choked and hidden underground while people grub for money-- we'll shut down the markets, shut down the communications, shut down those little silicon gods--”

Natasha leveled her gun at his leg. “Less shit. More information.”

“I'm not really sure how you think a nuclear bomb is going to help,” Clint added.

The man looked at him contemptuously. “We don't need a nuclear bomb. We just need to cut the umbilical cord connecting man to his poisonous techno-womb.”

Natasha shot at him.

The bullet slammed into the concrete millimeters from his leg. He jumped, then screamed in pain.

“If you think that hurt,” she said, “imagine how it will feel when I actually shoot you.”

“The thing you're missing,” Clint said, “is, sure, your buddies can take down the city with EMPs.” 

Oh, she liked having a partner who thought as fast as Clint.

“But this?” He lifted his arrow. “It's not electronic. And that?” He pointed at Natasha's gun. “It's not electronic, either. So it's just you, and us. Down here.”

The man swallowed, panting. “Boat,” he said quickly. “Big one. Test bomb-- then another in the heart of the city.”

“Where?”

“I only know the boat.” He raised his hands as Natasha adjusted the aim of her gun. “I swear! We didn't have the second bomb yet, they're meeting the Germans-- the plan is to set off the first bomb, take all the cash from the bank, then get the second one--”

“Where's the boat?” she demanded.

They pumped the man dry until he was gibbering and repeating himself. Then they left him there, and barred the cabinet with a heavy chair. Clint called the local police--

“Agent Romanoff, do you copy?” Coulson's voice was scratchy, and strained.

“Copy.”

“I need backup. Now.”

That was alarming. “Where are you?”

_Crackle_ \-- “Found the Germans--” _Crackle_ \--

Then shouting in German, and the transmission dissolved into static.

“ _Blya_ ,” she hissed. _If I just heard Phil Coulson die_ \--

Her _feelings_ about that were not remotely a priority now.

“Coulson found the Germans. The Germans found him. He needs help.”

They ran for the car. “Man said it was non-nuclear. That means small range. The bank must be near the boat, and they'll have someone watching the bank. Or they'll be nearby.”

“Drop me at the docks. I'll stop the bomb. You save Coulson.”

But they saw the bank first. It was the only one near the waterfront; it had to be that one. They stopped far enough to avoid drawing suspicion, and split up without speaking. She walked until she was out of sight of the bank. After a couple of blocks, she saw him appear on a roof adjacent to the bank. He drew his bow, fired, ducked out of sight--

– and then reappeared, walking across the rope he'd fastened between the two buildings. The _tightrope_. She shut her mouth with a snap, and broke into a run when she was out of sight of the bank.

She slowed down when she saw the wharf. There was a guard on duty; she adjusted her clothing to make it less utilitarian and more provocative.,then she slung her bag over her shoulder like a purse, and stepped out of cover. She approached slowly, not looking straight at him, feigning confusion.

“Hi,” she said, accent firmly in place, before he could ask for her ID. Always better to take the initiative and get the other person off on the wrong foot. “I think I’m lost. This isn’t where the _Lady Adelaide_ is docked, is it?”

The guard turned around and looked. “Er, yes. It is. Are you a… member of the crew?” He looked her up and down, taking more time to do it than he really needed.

She scowled. “No, my boyfriend’s the captain. He told me to meet him here. I think he was just trying to make it so I had to stand him up. He’s a right arsehole.”

“I’m, uh, sorry,” the guard said. “Do you have any, um, ID?”

“For the gate? _No._ What a _cock_ , why’d he send me here if he knew I couldn’t get past? For God’s sake, I only agreed to meet him so I could dump his loser ass.” She let her voice get faster and louder.

As she’d hoped, the guard looked intrigued by the prospect that she would shortly be single. Before he could reiterate that she needed ID, she continued, “I don’t suppose… I mean…” She glanced past the guard. She saw him working himself up to say no, he couldn’t let her through, and she took him off-guard with, “Could you take him a message from me?”

“Uh…” He seemed torn between relief that she wasn’t asking him to break the rules, and nervousness that she was asking him to bend them. “I, er…” He licked his lips— maybe nervous, maybe not— and looked her up and down. His brain was pretty clearly warring with his dick.

“Please?” Natasha looked up at him through her eyelids.

It worked. It almost always worked. “Uh, sure.” He swallowed. “Sure. The _Lady Adelaide_ , you said?”

“Yes.” She gave him a slow, bright smile of gratitude.

“And, um, what was the message?”

“Just tell him—“ She pretended to choke back angry words. “Just tell him I’m waiting, won’t you? He can sign me in, right?”

“Uh, yes.”

“I tried phoning him, but he’s down in the bulkheads, or he’s just refusing to answer. Twat.” She pouted prettily.

The guard looked up and down the street. “I’ll be right back. Don’t— don’t let anyone in, right?”

“Of course not. And _thank you_ ,” she purred.

_Finally_ , he left. As soon as he was far enough away, she ducked under the gate and followed him. The noise of the river masked her footfalls, and she made it to the right barge without being noticed.

She climbed aboard and ducked. There would be a guard, somewhere, out of sight, to avoid attracting suspicion. She'd have to search the whole damn thing, and it was big. Or she could just get their attention-- but she didn't want to spook them into setting the thing off early. But--

The superstructure was dark grey; she blended in as she climbed the short distance to the bridge. It was empty, and locked. The screens were dark. The _electronic_ screens were dark. These weren't suicide bombers. How willing were they to die for their cause?

She picked the lock, and jammed the doors once she was inside. _I've never driven one of these before._ But she'd driven other boats, and more importantly, hotwiring a big boat was much like hotwiring a small boat.

The thing would be slow, but at least it was self-propelled. She got its computers turned on and started the motors. She heard running footsteps almost immediately-- she pushed the boat backwards as fast as she could, bumping hard into the adjacent craft. The footsteps stopped-- there was a shout, and a splash. _One down_. Then the other person kept running.

She ducked and waited for them to open fire. They were out in the river now, and if they killed her, with the doors jammed, they could crash in the seconds it would take them to break in. Whatever happened, even if they killed her, _someone_ would come to investigate. Would that make them desperate enough to set off the bomb? Or were they smart enough to realize they were on a vessel with an electronic control system?

She didn't have _much_ of a plan besides “get under power and buy some time.” The farther they got, the less populated the shore would become, and the less damage the thing could do. More importantly-- soon, they'd be out of range of the bank. What would happen when the Germans realized the British group couldn't pay for their second bomb?

The man outside apparently came to the same conclusion. He came back with a crowbar and smashed in the window. She shot him, but only winged his arm. He disappeared from view. She turned and looked out the window onto the deck, and saw movement--

Good news: she knew which hatch the bomb was behind. Bad news: the man who'd fallen overboard had climbed back up, and was running towards it. She tied the wheel into its current position, estimated the time they had on this course before they hit something, wrenched open the far door, dropped silently to the deck, and ran for the back.

The other man was running, too, down the other side, but he didn't hear her. “Arm it!” he yelled. _Shit_. She put on more speed, skidded around a cargo container just ahead of him, grabbed him, and slammed his head into the metal. He sank to the deck, unconscious.

She reached the hatch and dove down, hitting the deck below and rolling out of the way immediately. She hid behind the nearest stack of crates, then looked up--

– and ducked again as two bullets flew over her head. _Damn it!_ Never start a firefight in a metal box if you could help it. Would the bulkheads stop the shots? If they did, the ricochet could kill her.

She slithered across the floor as more bullets followed her path. She popped up long enough to throw a knife at the man, who was about halfway down the hold, but he ducked. She needed to get closer. She rolled--

– into something cold. The bulkheads weren't stopping the shots. She felt to see where the water was coming from: two holes, clustered together. Not large, easily fixable with enough time, which she didn't have. She trusted that her aim was better, leaned over the crate, got two shots off-- missed, in the darkness, but didn't hit below the water line-- reloaded, popped up again--

– She ducked as he hurled something heavy with surprising accuracy. It clipped the side of her head. She saw stars, and fell back, motionless for a moment.

The sound of a _click_ brought her back. She pulled herself up for a better look, as well as she could in the dark. Yes: a conventional bomb, with an unconventional attachment. That steel tube attached at the collar and would funnel the force of the blast-- she'd set one off herself, once, much smaller. This one looked capable of taking out all the electronics for blocks. Was there a train line nearby? They were going to run aground soon--

Footsteps above. The other man, or maybe there'd been others. She was out of time. She popped up again, shot the man, and finally hit him-- he staggered back and collapsed in the pooling water-- but he'd flipped the switch before he stopped moving. She vaulted over the crates and ran for the bomb, then dropped to the deck and rolled as she heard footsteps on the ladder. No _time!_

– The boat _jolted_ and stopped moving, shuddering. They were stuck. A deep, ominous groan of metal-- that impact hadn't been good. She risked gunfire from behind to leap over the last stack of crates and to the bomb. She flipped the switch back-- but it had a failsafe. The timer kept running.

_Hell_. If she started running now, she might make it off the boat before the blast. But that wasn’t an option. The bomb would go off, but maybe not the EMP-- She grabbed the tube and started to twist. It barely moved. A bullet flew over her head-- she ducked, and shot back-- the man dropped behind the crates, hit or taking cover-- Finally she got the tube unlocked, and rotated it frantically until it came off. She grabbed the box containing the guts of the EMP-- she could try to take it apart and make sure that would really stop it, but she was—

Out of time.

She ran for the ladder, counting the seconds. Too few. When the countdown in her head reached zero, she dove for cover. Her last thought was a calculation of how likely she was to survive an explosion in an enclosed, underwater space.

*

She woke soaked and choking.

Her head was above water, in a pocket of air, but jammed up against something hard. Waves were splashing up to her mouth; above her, she heard fire. The device was still clutched to her chest. It hadn't gone off. Only the conventional bomb had.

Above. She knew which way was up. She just had to find a way out.

She was trapped, but all her limbs seemed intact. Mostly. She didn’t think about the things that were getting into her wounds from the Thames water. Time to worry about slow death later, if she survived this fast one.

Which way was clear? If the ship had held together at all, there would still be a long side and a short side. If she tried to swim the length of the long side, she would drown. Which was the short side?

She thought she saw light ahead of her. It was shimmering. Moonlight, or fire? She took a deep breath, dove, and kicked free.

She got lucky. When she came up, lungs burning— she should have been able to hold her breath for much longer than that, the smoke was getting to her— she was separated from the open water by only a pair of submerged crossbeams. She wriggled through those, and was free.

But not in the clear, yet. She smelled fuel spreading on the water. It was probably on her. She needed to get away before the surface caught. She found the shore, and started to swim. 

Shit, she had an audience-- a crowd had gathered. How long had she been out? When she looked back, the boat was half-submerged. They shouted to her-- they'd seen her, she couldn't get away. She could duck underwater, hold her breath, and swim downstream, but they could easily pursue. 

So she staggered out onto the shore. Nobody there looked like another terrorist, which was good-- but--

“What the hell _happened_?!” the guard from the wharf demanded.

She looked over her shoulder. “He didn't take the breakup well.”

A disturbance at the back-- two police officers pushed their way through. “Ma'am, we're going to need to talk to you,” the woman said. “An ambulance is on its way, it'll take you to A and E.”

“I don't need an ambulance.” What she _needed_ was to get out of sight so she could go find the others.

“What's that?” the man asked.

She held the EMP device closer to her chest. “Nothing.”

The two of them exchanged looks. “Ma'am, hand over that device.”

She refused long enough to get them to arrest her, cuff her, take the EMP bomb, and stick her in the back of the police car. Luckily they didn't recognize it, or what she was about to do would get even harder. They started the car and headed for the station.

She shook her wrist until the key, lifted from the woman when she wasn't paying attention, fell into her hands. She undid the cuffs. When they rounded the next corner, she unlocked the door and bailed out, rolling to the pavement to shed momentum. She stumbled to her feet and took off in a dead sprint.

She lost them in two minutes, and perched on top of a roof to orient herself. She was soaked, and the night air was much too cold. Her ears still rang strangely, and she had a terrible headache. Her right wrist ached; she was thoroughly lacerated. Her earpiece was ruined-- it should have been waterproof, but it clearly wasn't. She'd lost one gun in the wreck and her other was useless until she could clean it. Her phone was dead, too. She had her knives, and her wits. That was enough.

She needed to get back to the bank. The police were still looking for her, and she was conspicuous, the way she was. She descended to street level and broke into the first clothes shop she found. She easily found something that fit adequately; the Red Room had forced them to keep their bodies so that they would fit in a standard clothing size, and she'd never lost the habit-- it was too handy.

She _had_ abandoned their methods, though.

She bundled her wet clothes in a trash bag and ditched them in a dumpster five blocks away. She pickpocketed a bunch of drunk boys for bus fare, and stole one of their hoodies for good measure; it would hide her face. She got off the bus. The bank should be just--

There were people on the roofs.

She ducked into the recessed doorway of the nearest building. That wasn't Clint, and it wasn't Coulson-- but it was a familiar profile.

The English terrorists would have heard the explosion shortly after they'd lost contact with their men. What would they have done then? Would they have tried to negotiate with the Germans for the second bomb? How many men would they have sent to investigate?

She needed intel. And she knew how to get it.

Her arms ached as she hauled herself up the building without rope to help her. Finally she levered herself silently over the edge, and crept forward.

She was impressed. She only got halfway across before Malcolm spun, gun pointed squarely at her chest. Natasha had her own gun pointed somewhere between the ground and the other woman's torso. Malcolm didn't need to know that it didn't work.

“What are you doing here?” Nat asked.

Malcolm watched her with undisguised suspicion. “Phil called me for backup.” She lowered her gun. “He said he'd found the terrorists. Then we were cut off. We managed to track him here.” She nodded to the street. “They're in the bank. I think the English group is trying to break open the safe the old-fashioned way, so they can pay the Germans.”

“How long?”

“About an hour. Your Hawkeye is in there with them, I think. I don't know if either he or Coulson are free.” She looked Natasha up and down. “I wondered if that explosion had something to do with you.”

Natasha lowered her own gun so it pointed straight down. Malcolm knew more about the situation than it sounded like Coulson had had time to tell her-- but they'd had the code, too, and could have deciphered the same transmissions. Maybe MI-5 had found Coulson's tracks. “I disarmed the first bomb.”

“Oh, is that what that was?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “Yes. I only blew up the ship instead of blowing up the ship _and_ setting off the EMP bomb.”

Malcolm's eyes widened, just a fraction. “An EMP bomb.”

“Yes.”

Malcolm held out a second gun. “I doubt yours works.”

Natasha came forward, carefully, to take it, and gave her further points for perception. “Do you know how long B-- Hawkeye's been in there?”

“I know his real name is Clint Barton. You don't need to censor yourself. I don't know yours, though.”

“Can we talk about our secret identities later?” Natasha snapped.

“There's nothing to tell. I haven't seen him for sure-- but I thought I briefly saw a man with a quiver silhouetted.”

“Do any of your people have eyes on any of them?”

“No.”

“Then I'm going in.”

“How?”

“I'll blow up that bridge when I come to it.” She stood up--

And a window of the bank exploded, shattered by-- what the hell _was_ that--

It was coming towards them. She threw herself down--

The second arrow exploded, giving the first arrow and its heavy payload the extra kick it needed to reach and crash onto their roof. Malcolm was already running towards it. “It's another EMP bomb,” she said tightly.

They would only have sent it out such a risky way if they were trapped, and if--

The bank blew up. She dove for cover as concrete and dust rained down around them.

*

He. _Hurt_.

Someone was dabbing at his face.

No captor had ever been that gentle with him. He didn't need to swing into full alert mode. He felt like he'd lost four rounds with a sumo wrestler-- though he only knew what it was like to lose two.

He smelled smoke and dust. The fingers gripping his chin turned his head slightly; small fingers, strong, but using a light touch. He was pretty sure who they belonged to, and pretty sure he'd seen them be the opposite of gentle, frequently. “Never took you for the brow-mopping kind.”

He was proud of himself for getting that out intelligibly. It was hard to think. He hoped he was right about the identity of his company.

“No,” Natasha agreed. “Keeping my partner's open wounds from getting infected is as far as I go.”

“Oh.” Pause. “What's the situation?” It couldn't be dire, or she wouldn't be sitting there looking after him. Right before the explosion, he remembered-- “Coulson!”

“He's fine. Better than you. He said you tackled him to the ground when the bomb went off.”

“Oh. Yeah.” No wonder everything hurt so bad.

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. She didn't look so good, exhausted, and pained. “Situation?”

“I disabled the first bo-- the first EMP bomb. Agent Malcolm and I got the payload you sent. Right after the explosion, MI-6 moved in. They have the terrorists in custody.”

“What happened to you?” He had some idea-- they'd heard the explosion, and when the bank security hadn't gone down, the trouble had started.

“I got trapped in an exploding freighter.” She paused. “So what happened in there?”

“I got trapped in an exploding bank.”

She looked at him.

“They had Coulson. The two groups started fighting. It was gonna turn violent. I got him free, but they noticed. Turned into a game of cat and mouse. We got the EMP part, they decided to set off the bomb and make a run for it, we locked them in, got the bomb out to you.” He pushed her hand away, gently, and sat up. “What are you doing out here with me?”

She frowned.

He looked her over more carefully. “Coulson benched you, didn't he.”

“We're done anyway,” she said-- almost snapped. Yes, Clint had guessed correctly, and she didn't like being ordered to sit down before she fell down.

“Really? Oh, good.”

“Coulson's staying behind to figure all this out.”

“Bet he'll be tied up with a lot of loose ends.”

Natasha smirked. “I'm not sure that's all he'll be tied up with.”

He followed her gaze. Coulson was standing on the sidewalk, his back to them, talking with a tall woman with red hair-- Malcolm. Agent Malcolm, from MI-6. He figured out what Nat meant, and groaned.

“You have a problem with bondage?” she asked innocently.

“I have a problem with thinking about Coulson’s sex life!”

“Agent Barton, are you aware that your earpiece is locked on?” Coulson asked.

Was he lucky enough that the explosions had made the ground so unstable it could swallow him up? “No, sir. Thank you for alerting me so _promptly_.” He switched off his earpiece and dug it out of his ear before Coulson could retort. Then he covered his face with his hand. “Natasha, as my friend and one of the world’s deadliest assassins, please kill me.”

“No,” she said heartlessly.

He groaned.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here. Can you walk?”

“Of course.”

“There's a van. It'll dump us at the airstrip.” She slid an arm behind his shoulders and helped him stand. She steadied him as the world swayed.

His own hands were empty. What-- where was-- “Bow.”

She pointed. He leaned over and grabbed his gear, strapping it onto his back. The world spun some more. Nat propped him up with her other hand.

She frowned at him. “You look pretty woozy. How many fingers am I holding up?”

He stared down at her with wounded dignity. “You have one arm across my shoulders and the other on my side.”

She smirked. “Glad to have you with us. Let's get out of here.”

*

They got out of there, and landed at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base in Paris-- the same one they'd stopped at, briefly, en route from Klaipeda to Missouri. She looked around. She didn't feel silly things like nostalgia, but if she did--

Well. She was glad things had happened the way they had.

They got through Medical. She got a whole three hours of sleep in temporary quarters before someone pounded on her door and told her to report to the communications center.

_Shit_. She pulled her clothes on. She _could_ run much harder, and longer, than this short mission had demanded. That didn't mean she liked it.

Clint was there too, looking as awake as she felt. She was just about to demand an explanation from the nearest agent when Robinson strode in, trailing junior agents. “Sorry,” he said. “We just got a priority call and we need you on this.” 

“What is it?”

“Four days ago, the children of several high-level American and European diplomats were kidnapped in a coordinated strike around the Middle East, by Iraqi and Syrian militants. One of our own is missing his daughter.” He looked grim. “Three days ago, a British patrol met and engaged some of the militants. They killed them all before they knew who they were. Now Intel thinks they found the base. We need you to get the kids out. You'll have backup, but they won't go in until the children are secured. Do you have any questions? You'll get a more thorough briefing en route.”

She shook her head.

“No, sir.”

“Then go. Hurry. Your plane leaves in six minutes.”

“Fly, my pretties,” Clint muttered as they ran for the hangar. She looked sidelong at him, but didn't ask.

They slept on the plane, flying east into the morning. They landed at an American air base, commandeered a helicopter, and flew to a drop point in the desert where they were met by a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent waiting with two... camels. Camels were _not_ her favorite mode of transportation.

But they got them there, silently. They made radio contact with S.H.I.E.L.D. backup and then climbed a ridge to surveil. “I don't see anyone moving,” Clint said, looking down at the square compound. It was laid out around a central courtyard, barred with heavy gates, and one side was two stories higher than the rest.

“He said most of them were killed. They're probably down to a skeleton force.”

“Infrareds?”

She handed him the goggles.

After a moment, he shook his head. “Damn things aren't very good, but I think most of them are in the west wing.”

“Then let's go.”

They took advantage of the rolling clouds and advanced across the plain in the cover of the shifting shadows. No one shot at them. No one even saw them. They made it to the high wing, and climbed to the roof. Her arms still ached. 

She understood why they'd made it unchallenged when they got to the roof. “Place is practically deserted.” She saw one sentry snoring below, and another through an open window in the west wing. But that was it.

Clint pointed to the eastern part. “Kids must be in there, if they're here. It's the only section with barred windows.”

“I'll go, you cover me.”

He shook his head. “I'm in better shape. I'll go.” He tied off a rope to a projection on the ceiling.

It was only marginally true, but true enough that she didn't argue. She handed him her lock picks. “You know how to use these?”

He gave her a look she probably deserved, for asking something like that.

She covered him as he slid down and crossed the courtyard, sticking to the shadows, out of sight of the half-conscious sentry. It was weird, hanging back while he went in; usually their positions were switched. He checked the courtyard, checked the east wing, and picked the lock. He pushed open the door.

“ _Shit_.” His voice was soft, but vehement. “I found them. Stay back.”

She looked for whatever danger he'd encountered. When she saw nine, she bit out, “You don't have to _protect_ me--”

“ _No one_ should have to see this.” His voice was dark enough that she subsided. “Call it in. Tell them to bring body bags.”

She switched to the frequency of the group waiting a mile back. “Widow to Rescue One.”

“This is One, go ahead.”

“Found the targets, requesting evac. Need medical assistance and body bags.”

Clint's voice broke in. “I have the kids secure. They can move in.”

She relayed that, then added, “We'll cover them while you clear the compound.”

“Copy that, Widow. Inbound in five.”

“Copy, Widow out.”

She watched the shadows intently, but no one, nothing, moved. Were there any people there besides the two she could see? Had the rest just... left? She switched frequencies back, and told Clint their backup was on the way. “What did they do?” she muttered.

“Nothing. Not a damned thing.” He might have snarled, or it might have been static.

The _whump-whump-whump_ of an approaching helicopter finally woke someone in the other side of the compound. A bleary-eyed man stumbled out. She killed him with a throwing knife deep in his eye socket. He dropped silently. It was another minute before anyone else appeared. She killed him the same way. The next man who tried to force open the door found it blocked by bodies. Then the helicopter was hovering overhead, dropping lines swarming with soldiers, and the second was behind it; she could see stretchers through its open door.

“Widow?”

“I've got it covered,” she assured Clint. Someone inside got smart and broke a window. She glimpsed a long rifle swinging into position before she sighted and shot into the darkness. The body _thud_ ded to the ground. The glint of metal disappeared.

A new voice broke in: “Widow, this is Rescue Two, what's your position?”

She smirked. “Look fifteen degrees to your left.” When she saw the pilot’s head turn, she waved. “I have the exits from the compound covered. Hawkeye is inside.”

The soldiers were all inside now, and the first helicopter pulled up; the second took its place and started dropping medics.

“Until the compound is clear, I’m not authorized to land inside. But if the gate's open, I can land right outside and we won’t have to send stretchers down the ropes.”

“On it.” She switched frequencies. “Hawkeye, send your bow and quiver out with one of the medics.”

“What?”

“I need to blow something up.”

He paused. “Copy.”

She backed up to the peak of the roof, took a running start, launched herself off and out over the courtyard, grabbed one of the ropes dangling from the helicopter, and rappelled down. “Getting bored up there?” the pilot asked drily. She ignored him. One of the medics hurried out, carrying Clint’s collapsed bow and his quiver. 

“Rescue Two, have your gunners watch my back.” She climbed to the roof of the west wing. It was shuddering with gunfire and explosions as S.H.I.E.L.D. cleared it. “Recommend you ascend fifty feet.” She’d watched Clint do this enough times to know the sequence for an explosive arrowhead. She pulled the arrow from the quiver, and carefully nocked it. Then she drew the string back, gritting her teeth at the tug on her muscles. She wasn’t weak by any means, and it was still hard as hell. But she didn’t need the arrow to go very far.

The helicopter had taken a higher position. “Tell your people to keep their heads inside.” She waited for confirmation, arms aching. Then she shot. The arrow flew and lodged between the door and the frame, exactly where she wanted it to go. She flattened herself on the roof, and tapped the bow once to detonate the explosives.

When her hearing cleared and the dust settled, she saw that the gate had been blown clear out of the frame. As she’d thought— they’d spent money on a heavy gate, but skimped on latches and hinges. “Objective achieved.”

“Thanks, Widow.” The pilot landed, sending up huge clouds of dust. She climbed to the roof of the higher building, farther from the fighting, and resumed covering the courtyard. The medics hurried out, offloading the stretchers. They came out again a few minutes later, this time with the stretchers full. Some of the children were covered with a sheet.

She counted nine in all, three dead and six still living. None of them walked out. Clint carried the last kid out; they were short a stretcher. He had a brief conversation with the medic, then looked around for her. She waved to get his attention. He held his hand out for his bow, then shook his head and started to climb instead.

She handed over his weapons when he joined her. He didn’t speak, and she didn’t ask. The soldiers were going room to room now; it sounded like they weren't encountering much opposition.

A man stumbled through a window into the courtyard. Clint held up his hand to stop her shot as the man fell, then crawled, then got to his feet. She didn’t like the interference, but she held her fire. Clint sighted, and waited. He let the man get to the ruined doorway, then put an arrow between his shoulder blades. The momentum pitched him onto the ground, and the impact rammed the arrow back out again. The body lay still in a growing pool of blood.

The next person through the door was wearing S.H.I.E.L.D. garb. He waved to get their attention. “We’ve cleared the compound. Are we your ride?”

“Yes.”

They rode back with the S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers and three prisoners, the only survivors. Clint stared at them the entire trip. When they were offloaded, headed for some detention facility, she thought he might draw his gun and shoot them dead.

They caught another helicopter back to the Helicarrier, sitting in the Mediterranean. Whatever debriefing or paperwork was required could wait. She and Clint walked together to the personnel level. She reached her temporary room, and hesitated. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He met her gaze briefly.”

“You’re not fine.” She folded her arms over her chest. She was too tired to be tactful and had too much respect for him to be manipulative. “Do you need company?”

“No.” He kept walking.

She didn’t try to stop him. She headed for the showers and sluiced off grime and blood until the water went from tepid to cold. She dressed, went back, and cleaned her guns.

She was finishing up the second pistol when there was a knock on the door. Clint was leaning against the wall outside. He’d showered and put on civvies, but he didn’t look very good. “Thought you might still be up.”

She looked him over. His hair was tousled, as if he'd tried to sleep and then gotten up again. “Want to spar?”

It was the last thing either of them needed, physically, but that didn't make it a bad idea. He hesitated, and nodded. They headed for one of the gyms, found it empty, and took up positions.

Clint didn't fight clean, and he didn't complain when she didn't, either. Other agents whined incomprehensibly. If you had to fight, then you had to fight to win. Archaic notions of honor had no place in survival.

She floored him once, throwing him over her shoulders and twisting to put her foot on his diaphragm before he could recover. The next round, he knocked her feet from under her and pushed her down with his greater weight, straddling her hips and getting an arm across her windpipe. After that, she tackled him low in the knees, and twisted his arms up at a painful, paralyzing angle. 

She sat back on the mats, panting. He sat up, gingerly. “Wanna watch a movie?”

She didn't. But she didn't think he really did, either; what he wanted was not to think about what had happened. He didn't like admitting to vulnerability any more than she did. “Fine.”

They went to her room. Clint pulled up a bizarre, brightly-colored movie with tornadoes, talking lions, and animated rust buckets. “You show this to children?” she muttered, when a horde of homicidal primates descended, screeching, out of the sky.

Clint didn't answer. He was asleep, his head leaning back against the wall.

She was a little irritated. She wasn't his mother, or his caretaker; she was barely fit to look after herself, emotionally, let alone him. But she didn't wake him. He hadn't wanted to think about it-- he wouldn't want to dream about it, either. He was sleeping peacefully, so she would leave him be.

She looked at the floor, and decided she was too battered. They would fit on the bed-- barely. But there were things you did for a partner, and this was one of them. She was glad she'd learned that, actually. She was glad that she’d been in a situation where she _could_ learn that. It was an idea antithetical to the Red Room’s doctrine. She was glad that she inhabited a world, now, where she had that choice.

She shifted. He stirred. “N'tasha?” he slurred. 

“Yes.”

He sat up. “God, I'm sorry. You should have kicked me out.”

She wasn't-- quite-- comfortable with this, not comfortable enough to regret his waking. But being willing to let him stay was still a choice she could consciously make. “I passed out drunk in your bed. You don't have anything to apologize for.” That wasn't a memory she liked to remember, but it wasn't _his_ fault.

He snorted. “I'm going to... go.”

She didn't ask if he was going to be all right, because she didn't think she'd get an honest answer. She'd let him stay, if he really needed to. But she wouldn't stop him from going. She felt uncomfortable-- defensive-- about even giving him that much latitude, like she had to justify her decision to an unknown observer.

“We didn't finish the movie.”

She stretched out when he stood up. “ _What. A. Tragedy_.”

“I'm telling you, Romanoff, you're missing out on an American cinematic great.” He sounded better.

“It may be an _American_ cinematic great, but that doesn't say anything about its quality.”

“Snob. Next time you're in medical and you can't run away, I'm bringing it by.”

“Great. Then we can both be in medical.” She gave him a bright smile, even though he couldn't see it.

Or maybe he could. He snorted again. “G'night, 'Tasha.”

“Night.” She waited for the door to click behind him, then rolled over, buried her head in her pillow, and fell asleep.

 


	3. And Your Enemies Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter contains on-screen violence, torture, and medical trauma. It also contains references to brainwashing and rape, including of minors. See end notes for more detailed, spoiler-y warnings.

Natasha decided to experiment.

In the Red Room, her body had been a tool and her personality a weapon. She'd been her own after she escaped, but still a blank slate, with preferences and pleasures to be adapted for whatever job she was paid for. Finding a kind of tea that she liked better than another, and discovering that _she_ , not anyone she had ever been, enjoyed the pleasure of a hour in her chair with a book, had been a major victory.

She was determined to keep writing on herself— writing herself. Making herself real would not compromise her ability to do her job: that had just been an excuse, a fake fear to avoid the much more terrifying prospect of creating herself.

The Red Room had taught her to exploit her body's pleasure as a means to an end, or else ignore it as irrelevant. Her sexuality had been for someone else to enjoy, not her. There were a few tenuous wisps of memory she couldn’t track down, but she otherwise was sure that Natalia Romanova had never had real sex she enjoyed. Natasha Romanoff had no sexual experience at all. She wasn’t sorry for that; it was her choice. But now she was choosing to experiment. Her tea cabinet was fully stocked; could she discover other preferences? Could Natasha Romanoff choose to use her body for her own pleasure?

After some deliberation, she bought a selection of ridiculously colored, shaped bits of silicone, and had them shipped to her Missouri address. She also started looking for a likely-- not a mark. A likely… lab partner.

She looked for a man, because it would be easier to find an interested man than an interested woman. She really didn’t know many people at S.H.I.E.L.D. Coulson was right out, because they had a professional relationship, and because she _knew_ she didn’t want to have sex with him. Clint was out, for the same reasons, and so many more. She’d come to believe what he’d told her in Manhattan, so there was that, his own feelings-- and, he knew her more intimately than anyone else. If she was going to enjoy sexual intimacy, she wanted it to be with someone who didn’t have as keen an idea of her vulnerabilities. And she just… didn’t _want_ to have sex with him.

She had criteria: not an ass, not currently in a relationship, someone she could talk to without having to lie too much. Someone who would listen if she said no, and spare her the necessity of inflicting dire bodily injury. Someone who knew what he was doing, so she didn’t have to do all the work of making it pleasurable.

She found a likely candidate, a combat instructor, and watched him closely. He sparred with young, attractive, female trainees, and as far as she could tell, never put a hand or a glance out of place. Though he was obviously good _with_ his hands. She knew how much physical contact was necessary to teach someone how to fight, and he stuck to the minimum. She tapped into S.H.I.E.L.D. gossip to find out that he was currently single, but had a couple of known ex-girlfriends, so probably wasn’t gay. He didn’t set off any alarm bells.

So she sat down across from him in the cafeteria late one night. It was a short step from that conversation to kissing in a poorly lit corridor. At first it was just light kisses, and she appreciated his careful touch, his dedication to being thorough. It felt good, not spectacular— but better, more honest, than anything similar she’d ever done as another person.

She slid her tongue into his mouth, and he took that as a signal to escalate with zeal. He pressed her up against the wall, knee between her thighs, and tangled his fingers in her hair, kissing her with enthusiasm. His skin, his arms, his body, were pleasantly warm against her.

She put her hands on his hips and then slid them up his back, nipping at his lower lip. He groaned with pleasure. One hand slid down to cup the side of her breast. That was a potential danger zone, but his touch was light and caressing, not like other, less pleasant experiences she’d had. He broke away from her mouth, leaving her lips feeling swollen, and kissed his way down her jawline to where her jawbone met her neck. She squirmed. He wasn’t slobbering, but the feeling of his saliva drying on her chin was… neutral at best.

He mistook her movement for pleasure, rubbed a thumb over her nipple, and nipped at the spot below her ear. She slid her hands up his chest and pushed, gently. He stumbled back a step, looked up— and deliberately took another step back. “What?” he panted.

“I don’t want to do this any more.”

He groaned softly, but stayed where he was. Then he blinked several times, obviously trying to string a thought together. “Uh. I. Um, okay. Um… okay.” He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Uh, not that I’m trying to pressure you, totally get it, but I’m just as happy to be the one up against the wall if it makes a difference.”

She smiled. “I appreciate the thought. But it doesn’t.” She’d chosen correctly; her experiences were biased by her job, but someone who backed off when she said ‘Back off’ was enough of a rarity to be appreciated.

He looked a little glassy-eyed. No surprise, his brain was missing some blood. “Okay. Well. Um. See you around?” He took another step back, giving her plenty of room to leave without having to brush past him.

*

When he heard it going around that someone had seen Nat playing tonsil hockey with Agent Mulligan, he was surprised, but brushed it off. If it was true, it was true, and if it was false… well, it wasn't news that certain people really lacked self-preservation.

When he turned up at their next briefing, Nat was there already, sprawled in a chair in a way she never did as a cover. She cradled a cup of coffee protectively.

He sat down, and looked at her.

“Yes, I do know people are talking about me.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“It's ironic-- or maybe just telling-- that after everything I've done in my life, what makes me the center of S.H.I.E.L.D. gossip is sticking my tongue down another agent’s throat.”

Coulson stepped inside in time to catch the end of her sentence. “I definitely needed to hear that.”

“How was London, sir?” Clint asked.

“Fine. Wet.”

“What’s that on your neck?” Natasha leaned forward to gesture towards, but not touch, a patch of skin indistinguishable from the rest.

“I cut myself shaving.”

Silence. Natasha smirked.

“There’s nothing on my neck, is there,” Coulson said resignedly.

“Nope,” Natasha said.

“I can’t believe you fell for that, Coulson, that’s one of the oldest tricks in the book.”

“I admit, when I paired you with Agent Barton, I didn’t expect that you’d turn out just as evil as he is.”

“That’s not fair,” Clint protested, “I’ve never asked about your…” Two sets of eyes turned towards him, watching with some malice to see how he would finish that sentence. “… uh, amorous encounters.”

“‘Amorous encounters’?” Natasha repeated mockingly. “Is it suddenly 1890 in here?”

“Much as I’d love to spend all day painting our nails and talking about our love lives,” Coulson began.

“You would? I could get you some nail polish, sir. I think purple would really be your color.”

“You think purple would be everyone’s color, Barton.”

“Yeah, true.”

“You’ve had this conversation before?” Natasha asked.

Coulson sighed.

She tilted her head. “And have you ever…?”

“No,” Coulson said firmly. “I have never painted my fingernails purple, nor do I ever intend to.”

Nat looked at him innocently. “That’s so _specific_.”

“Much as I would love to spend all day detailing exactly what cosmetic body modifications I would _not_ perform, this is, in fact, a mission briefing.”

Nat subsided.

“You’re going to Wiesbaden, in western Germany. While generously helping the Department of Defense investigate its recent denial of service attack, S.H.I.E.L.D. picked up some chatter indicating that H5N1 may be a botched, accidentally-released bioweapon.”

“A.I.M. again?” After what they’d done to Modok, Clint would enjoy the chance to blow a bunch of them up.

Coulson shook his head. “No, we think it’s a different band of rogue monomaniacal scientists.”

“Wonderful.”

“We know surprisingly little about them. We’ve been calling them the “Secret Empire” for short. And we’re not sure why we found traces of them on the DoD’s server. But there may be some connection to the 1 st Brigade, 1st Armored Division of the U.S. Army, which is moving out of Wiesbaden. The Empire might be attempting to smuggle out matériel in what's going to Texas. We’ve picked up hints of a meeting with one of the Empire’s agents and a mole on the base. Your mission is to trace this connection. We want to know more about the Empire, their connection with the 1st Brigade and the DoD, and if they’re working on a super-plague bioweapon.”

“Would you like fries with that?”

“No, but if you could bring me back an order of Schnitzel, I’ll take it into account in your next performance review.”

“Into account which _way_ , sir?”

Coulson smirked. “We don't know when the meeting is, or where. Or between whom. We don't _think_ it's happened yet. But other than that, we can get you everything you need.” 

“Can you work on H5N1 from this end, and see if it resembles a bioweapon?” Nat asked.

Coulson nodded. “R &D is already on it. If there are any pertinent updates, we’ll get them to you in the field.”

“Covers?” Clint asked. 

“In the folder. Take your pick. Any other questions?”

After he left, they looked through their options for cover stories. “Want to go as siblings again?”

“Sure.” He skimmed the scant contents of the folder quickly, then slowed down. He found a cover identity for which Logistics had already laid the groundwork. “This one. Half-sibs. I won’t have to dye my hair again.”

“Oh, the horror,” Nat murmured. She’d had two hair colors in the last two months, and had cut her hair back up to her chin for their last mission.

They had a second briefing with Crypto about the intercepted documents. There were three of them: a man and a woman who were very professional but difficult to understand, and a second man who spoke fluent Big Brain-to-English but kept staring at Natasha’s breasts. Clint kicked him under the table. He flushed red, swallowed hard, and stared resolutely at the screen.

“I can take care of myself,” Nat said when they were gone.

“I know.”

“You don’t need to babysit me.”

“I know.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Clint.”

“He was being unprofessional, and you couldn’t reach.”

“What makes you think he was even bothering me?”

“In Manhattan you complained that S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t have a policy requiring people to look you in the eye or allowing you to beat the shit out of them if they didn’t.”

“You have a good memory.”

“And even if he wasn’t bothering you, it’s still unprofessional. Look, 50% of the people who can save my ass are women, I want them sticking around.”

“Noble of you.”

He closed his eyes and tried to swallow his anger. No, it wasn't going away. “You want the fucking truth, Nat?”

“I always want the fucking truth.”

“Before I was in the circus, I was in foster care.” _And worse_. “I saw enough of people picking on ones who couldn’t fight back. Didn’t like it then, still don’t like it now, and you make some sarcastic remark about me being _noble_ , I’ll—“ _Sit you down and force you to listen to traumatic stories of my childhood?_ Yeah, that was a good threat.

“What else do you call someone who goes around ‘defending the weak’?” She made sarcastic air quotes.

He choked on his own angry snap, felt his face flush, and got his breathing under control. “Fuck off, Nat.” He stalked blindly in the other direction. They had a mission and he was stomping away like a child, but right now, this was his best option: get away before he made things worse. Cool off. Then go back and convince Nat that everything was fine.

_Yeah, you’re doing a real great job convincing her that you’re a functional adult._

_You shut the fuck up too_.

He ended up on the roof, instinctively: get out and get up. No one would find him here. He slumped against the wall around the water tower, and watched the birds and the air traffic for a while. He stopped feeling angry and started feeling like an idiot. He just— he didn’t— he wasn’t doing it for the _Goddamned credit_. He was doing it so he could sleep at night. Fuck, she knew he’d shot a man in cold blood to protect a kid, why did she make a fuss about this? He put his head on his knees, aware that he was trying to pretend he wasn't thinking about the women he _hadn’t_ been able to defend. 

Well, really just the one woman.

_Ah, fuck_. He wasn’t going to pretend he was a paragon of normality _or_ health _or_ functionality, but he wasn’t going to feel ashamed of this, either.

“Clint. I’m sorry.”

He jumped what felt like feet in the air and slammed his back into the wall. “Jesus _Christ_ , Natasha.”

She didn’t smirk at his lack of situational awareness. She had her hands in her pockets, and she looked uncomfortable. “I’m not used to people doing things for me without expecting anything in return.”

He slid down the wall, a silent invitation, not a retreat. She hesitated, then sat down next to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

She looked at her hands. They sat in silence.

_You can hardly make it worse now_. Did he trust her with this? Did he trust her to understand, or-- at least not mock him? “There were some people I couldn't--” He choked on the word _save_ and finished with, “help.” “And I ain’t never gonna forgive myself for that.”

She snorted mirthlessly. “Yeah.” Then: “I’m not good at apologizing and meaning it, but if there’s... something you want me to say.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“Nat, you don’t have to grovel. It’s fine.”

“I’m not _groveling_.” She huffed quietly. “I, uh… Well. Get wrapped up in my own problems, sometimes, and forget other people have their own.”

“Nat, it’s not—“ He didn’t want her to think— It hadn’t been a big deal until it had been a big deal to _her_. It was just _him_. “This is one of the few non-shitty parts of my personality. Can’t you pick something else to bother you?”

She rolled her eyes, and elbowed him.

“If I stick up for you against some asshole, it’s not because… I’m not _jealous_ , I don’t want to take his place, God. You’re my…” He swallowed the “f,” and went with “… partner.”

She nodded. “Okay. I can live with that.”

“Look, if it bothers you…” He hated, _hated_ watching people get hurt, but if he was making her feel like he was keeping score, then— that was just another way of hurting someone, wasn’t it?

“Um,” Nat said. “No. I mean, I don’t _like_ them. I always like seeing assholes get kicked. Especially if they were assholes to me.”

“Okay.” He nodded once.

“Do you think we can go inside? It’s _cold_.”

He feigned surprise as he got to his feet. “A Russian complaining about winter?”

“I never said I _liked_ it.” She stopped before she opened the door. “Thanks. For, before.”

“Yeah, sure.”

*

They worked well into the night. Finally Clint stretched and yawned. “I got nothin’ else.”

Nat shook her head. “We need to be on the ground for this. I vote we sleep before our flight.”

“Good policy, Agent Romanoff. I second that. Meet at 0700 hours at the hangar?”

“Can’t you just say 7 am?”

“We can meet then if you prefer.”

She rolled her eyes. “See you at 7.”

The plane dropped them in Cologne. They caught a bus to the outskirts of Wiesbaden, and rented two cheap, nondescript hotel rooms. They split up to start surveilling, and agreed to meet back at 8.

He found an out-of-the-way perch where he could watch who came and went from the base. You couldn't tell a good spy just by watching them-- but if you watched everyone else _too_ , and found the patterns, that helped.

He wanted to put cameras up in strategic locations to keep monitoring while he was gone. The nearest S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost was Munich. He texted their main number. No reply. He called. No answer. He gave it a few minutes, watching the steady procession of civilian contractors going home for the night, and called again. No answer.

He called HQ. “Can you confirm contact with Munich? I can’t get in touch with them.” 

The pause stretched out. “Munich has switched to backup communications,” HQ finally reported. “What do you need?” 

“Uh, gear--” He told them what he was looking for.

“That's not a priority at this time. Another outpost may be able to supply you, or you can improvise.” They hung up without explaining anything.

He frowned, and kept watching as he thought through the implications. 

He made it back shortly after 8, with dinner. He checked his room carefully, then picked the lock to Natasha’s room— disappointed at how easy it was— and checked hers, just in case. He left the lights off and settled down to wait.

He heard a key in the lock, and quietly drew his gun. The door opened; light glinted off Nat’s gun briefly before she lowered it. He holstered his.

She flipped on the light. “Sneaking up on an armed assassin is not a good idea.”

“I wasn’t sneaking. I was sitting still. How’d you know I was here?”

“I smelled you.”

Clint sniffed his shirt.

“The food sitting on your lap?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She shook her head. “You’d make a terrible spy.”

“I know. It’s why I stick to shooting things.” He dumped the bag on the table, opened a box, snapped a picture with his phone, and texted it to Coulson. “Any luck?”

“Maybe.”

They exchanged progress reports over dinner. He told her about Munich. “Something's not right,” he finished, and shook his head. “Maybe a leak? I don't know. That's never happened to me before.”

Natasha looked thoughtful. “Would HQ tell us if it were a danger to our mission?”

“Probably?”

She raised an eyebrow.

When they were done eating, they split up again, Nat to a meeting with a contact she'd set up, Clint to a high roof to be her eyes. There was a great vantage point nearby, but he had to reach it through narrow, filthy tunnels.

_I'm not convinced this isn’t a set-up with you watching on CCTV and laughing_ , he texted Nat from the top.

She replied immediately: _Why, are you doing something undignified?_

_no. Im a paragon of dignity._

She sent back a pair of sarcastic air quotes. He considered replying with line art of the finger, but decided to actually be professional and do his job. 

He found a convenient rooftop and watched Natasha have several drinks in the outdoor seating of a pub with a man who looked very familiar. It clicked after a moment-- one of the officers from the base. _Not_ one of the ones he had pegged as suspicious. Either Nat was wrong, or this guy was good. Clint knew which he would bet on.

Someone else would have missed the moment when Natasha pickpocketed the officer as he gave her an overenthusiastic embrace. Then she faded away like she'd never been there. Clint slipped off the roof and caught up with her as she cut through another pub.

“I just need to go to ground--” She turned the corner, grabbed his wrist, and shoved him through a doorway, locking the door behind them. His eyes adjusted before she flicked on the lights. They were in... a bathroom.

“Wasn't quite what I meant when I said I was concerned about a leak.”

She ignored that. “I just need time to crack this.” She began to work at the cell phone.

Clint was still thinking through the Munich situation. Their phones went directly to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s satellites and back, but did their earbuds go through the nearest communications relay-- in this case, Munich? If there _were_ a leak, and the leaker was intercepting every earbud transmission in the area...

He texted HQ, requesting a trace of their earbud signals. He’d just put his phone down when the screen lit up: _non-urgent communications requests deprioritized._

He showed it to Nat. 

“I don’t like this,” she said.

“You wanna scrub the mission?”

After a minute, she shook her head, slowly. “No. But I want to be careful. You?”

He considered. His gut instinct wasn’t screaming at him, yet. Something was wrong, and they could get caught up in it, but it wasn’t necessarily wrong _with their mission_. “I think we’re good. For now.”

“Does S.H.I.E.L.D. have this sort of vermin problem often?”

He shook his head. “First time anything like this’s happened in my time here.”

The phone made an unhappy-sounding noise. Natasha's eyes narrowed, and then the screen lit up with text.

“Get what you need?”

She read quickly, too fast for him to follow. “Yes,” she said after a minute. “Here. Get it back before our man gets suspicious.”

He nodded once. She opened the door-- revealing two curious onlookers who had definitely been staring at it. She ducked her head, adjusted her belt buckle, threaded her fingers through his, and tugged him firmly down the hall. _How does she blush on cue like that?_

“Nat,” he muttered when they were safely outside, “did we just pretend to have a quickie in the bathroom?”

“You’re just now realizing this?”

He shook his head. “Why must you corrupt my innocence like this.”

“I didn’t realize you had any to corrupt.” She sounded more serious— sad— than the joke warranted, and so was the quick glance that followed. He didn’t speak fluent Natasha, but it looked like an ‘are-you-okay-with-this’ look.

“Sure. I’m a paragon of virtue.”

“Virtue _and_ dignity?”

“‘course.”

“ _I_ think you’re a paragon of not knowing what those words mean.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Barton, I have more dignity in my little finger than you, or 99% of the world’s population, do in your whole body.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” They'd reached the right building. He took the phone and headed up. In the courtyard below, the guy was just starting to look for his phone. Clint wiped it thoroughly on his pants, took careful aim, and tossed it onto the ruff of a passing woman's coat. It was thick enough that she didn't notice. The cloth broke the phone's fall, and then it slid, landing partially buried in an empty flower bed on the path between the man and the door to the pub. He stayed long enough to make sure the man found his phone and wasn't suspicious of its location; then he climbed down again.

Natasha went to pry information out of more drunk people. He 'acquired' some small cameras that would transmit to an off-site server; not as good as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s, but better than nothing. Then he went to investigate locations Crypto had flagged as possibly relevant. One was a nursing home. It was unlikely-- thought not impossible-- that that place was really a concern; the Internet café down the street was much more likely. He left a camera watching there, and at the pub that was next on the list.

The third was a house in the suburbs that looked completely normal. Nothing remarkable about it at all. But something... wasn't right.

The breeze rattled dead leaves in the street, distracting him. They danced on the pavement--

They danced on the pavement because this house was vented differently. The other houses had a roof vent and a chimney. They weren't affecting the street-level airflow much. This house was sucking air in right near ground level, and venting it steadily out the roof.

He backtracked to a 24-hour grocery store and bought a small bag of flour. Then he watched the house from a well-hidden perch. He could see very little behind the windows-- that wasn't normal glass. He hefted the bag, waited until the street was empty, and hurled the flour directly at the lower vent.

It exploded into a white cloud that was sucked in almost immediately. He watched the roof, and waited for the flour to be vented. And waited. And waited.

Scrubbers, then. Maybe he'd just flour-bombed the house of some unfortunate hyper-allergic person, but that wouldn't explain the mirrored windows. And someone with allergies wouldn't have had so many flowers, now dead, in beds behind the house. But someone trying to blend in with the other houses on the block, all of which had identical beds, would have. He'd found something.

He watched for an hour, but no one came in or out. The airflow pattern never changed. He left his last two cameras there and went back to the hotel. He got there just as Nat stumbled out of a car, laughing. Clint followed her inside when the car was out of sight. She straightened up and slipped off her heels. 

He caught up to her: she smelled like beer and cigarettes. “Last call was a while ago.”

Nat shrugged. “He had so many _fascinating_ stories to tell. But not, unfortunately, informative ones.”

“Well, _I_ found the Empire's lab. Probably.”

She looked up quickly.

He told her about the suspiciously-ventilated house in the suburbs. “Normally I'd call for S.H.I.E.L.D. backup,” he finished, “but-- not now.” He held up his phone. “Not ideal, but we can watch both angles at once.” It seemed like some rest was in order: they had no immediate leads, and they'd been going for twenty-four hours. They should sleep while they could, if not necessarily here.

She seemed to agree. “I’m going to wash off the stench of cigarettes, beer, and lechery.” She stretched in a way that should’ve been impossible for a vertebrate, and padded to the door. “I’m seriously considering covering the _sensitive regions_ of my clothes in itching powder. Anyone who cops a feel and then goes home and wanks would get what they deserve.”

… _ow. No. No._ “Lots of collateral damage,” Clint pointed out, _not_ because he wanted to jerk off while thinking about her, but-- there were some substances that _should not_ come in contact with genitals. “What if someone sits down after you wearing a short skirt?”

She tilted her head. “Point.” She sounded regretful.

His brain caught up with him when she opened the door. She didn’t usually— “You okay?”

He kind of expected her to snap at him for being overprotective— that was fair, but it was still his responsibility to ask, she was his partner and technically the junior agent— but she gave him a lopsided smile that was almost soft. “I’m fine. I'll catch up with you in four hours?”

He headed back to the suburbs and found the most comfortable concealed perch he could, in sight-- in sight for _him_ \-- of the house. He could watch only one angle from here; he rigged the other camera to alarm the phone if there was any movement.

Natasha showed up four hours later. She didn't see him immediately, so he tossed a pebble onto the street in front of her. She didn't do anything as obvious as jump and look around, but she took out her phone and turned, frowning, pretending. When she pretended to take a picture, she looked up and saw him. She took another location, nearby; Clint closed his eyes and slept as best he could.

They traded off hours of uneventful watches. Finally, shortly after sundown, the front door opened, and he watched-- a _child?_ \-- no, a small woman-- leave the house and walk quickly towards downtown. Clint held his position: Natasha was better at being inconspicuous, he was better at watching. 

His earpiece clicked twenty minutes later, and Natasha gave him a location update. He left his position and headed downtown himself, to be prepared for whenever their target stopped.

The target ended up at a restaurant. Clint ended up on another roof watching Natasha drink another beer. He picked out the second woman coming down the street by the way her eyes flicked to the window, as if she were looking for someone inside. She walked in and sat down across from the Empire's woman; Clint was at a bad angle to read their lips, but it looked like they were exchanging pleasantries. She was familiar--

Yeah. She was one of the soldiers he'd watched the first day.

_Oh, shit._ Two police SUVs pulled up outside the restaurant. _cops_ he texted Nat. She rose smoothly and headed for the back of the restaurant at a casual pace, crossing out of his field of vision just as the cops burst in.

Everything was chaos and confusion for a moment-- startled diners, a waitress who'd gotten knocked to the ground, one of the cops putting her foot in a dish of cold meat and cheese. Clint kept his eyes on the mole and her Empire contact, and watched to see if they signaled the cops that their quarry was getting away— but the cops descended on the contact instead, pulling her to her feet and cuffing her. The mole leapt to her feet, and turned just enough that Clint could see her shocked expression. The police escorted the other woman towards the door. The mole quietly faded towards the back of the restaurant.

_No-- they can't have the Empire agent--_ S.H.I.E.L.D. would be _pissed_ if he and Nat ambushed cops. Even more so if they killed any-- but they were excellent at killing people, and just as good at keeping people alive.

Clint took a risk, stood, and took a running leap to the roof of the restaurant just as the cops got outside. The back door banged open: the mole, walking quickly. Clint waited for a better shot. He didn't hear the door the second time-- Nat appeared silently, reached the mole, tackled her--

Two white vans pulled up at either end of the alley and discharged a crowd of men in black uniforms. More police, no, those dorky helmets didn't belong on any government forces. Nat whirled and got her back to the wall, a gun in each hand. Clint’s first shot took out the mole. Then he fired at the huge burly man lunging around the meat shield of his colleague, whom Natasha had just shot—

— and then Natasha collapsed. One of them reached for her-- Clint shot him in the throat-- but two more fired upwards with enough accuracy that he had to duck, and when he put his head up again, one of them had her limp body over his shoulder.

_What did they do to her—_ he fired relentlessly, but the goons pelted for the vans rather than returning fire. He aimed for the tires, and hit the body of the van. Then the other retreating group turned as one, and raked the roof with such ferocious gunfire that he had to dive for cover, or die. As he dove, he tapped out the sequence for a new toy from R &D.

He rolled, rolled again, and came up on his elbows. He had time for one shot. The arrow hit the crease of the back door— and dropped off, as it was supposed to, leaving the tiny tracker behind.

The other van wasn’t done with him. They rained gunfire down on him. Their backstop was a restaurant full of civilians right below, the fucking bastards. He didn’t have time for this. He flattened himself, nocked an arrow, and shot the van. It blew up with a satisfying fireball.

He needed a car. He dropped off the other side of the roof and left any surviving goons for the police. _If_ they weren't in league together. He sprinted down the road— he could see the other van, already two intersections ahead. Might as well let them think they got away clean— it would keep them from trying to use Nat as a hostage— _what did they do to her_. He pushed the thought of her limp body out of his mind. If he worried, he’d be useless.

He stole the first car that looked old enough not to have remote tracking, and pulled out his phone as he roared away from the curb. Whatever was wrong with S.H.I.E.L.D., it wasn’t in R &D— their toy was working. The screen showed his location and the location of the tracker, a couple blocks ahead. He needed to keep the van in sight in case they realized it was there and stuck it on another vehicle. He gunned it through a yellow light, then slowed up, keeping the van at the very edge of his vision. If he was having trouble seeing them, then they couldn’t see him. Not without binoculars, anyway. 

He fumbled with his burner phone and dialed one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. emergency lines. He identified himself, and hoped the crappy phone was good enough to match his voiceprint. After an agonizing wait, someone answered. 

“I need to speak to Agent Coulson. It’s an emergency.” He rattled off the highest-priority override code he knew.

“Please hold.”

Even S.H.I.E.L.D. had goddamned elevator music. But he didn’t have to wait long. “Make it quick.” There were _gunshots_ in the background.

“I need you to be sure this is a secure connection.”

There was a pause. Coulson hung up. After a moment, the phone rang again, a new number— a California area code. “Hello.”

“This is my private phone. It’s secure. What?”

What did it say that Coulson didn't consider the S.H.I.E.L.D. phones secure? But they had even bigger problems. “They took Romanoff.”

“Who?”

Clint described the ambush. “Someone's gotten into S.H.I.E.L.D., sir.”

More gunshots. “Yes, we'd noticed.”

“What's happening?”

“I can't say. Barton, I'm sorry, you're on your own for now.”

_FUCK._ “I'm not dropping this, sir. She's not collateral.”

“I know. Go get her back.”

“Yes, sir.” He hung up.

The van was heading past Frankfurt. What did they want Nat for? What were they going to do with-- _to_ \-- her? If the leak in S.H.I.E.L.D. were bad enough, could they have figured out some way to fuck up her brain again? He unclenched his hands before they cramped around the steering wheel. This wasn't helping on the not worrying front.

Did they want to kill her? Was she even still alive? Or did they want to force her to work for them? _I will hunt them down, burn them to the ground, and salt the earth they’re standing on_.

It was a nice thought, but it wasn't a plan.

He fell back further as traffic got sparser. He could be walking right into a trap, baited with Nat, designed to get both of them. He was prepared to accept that possibility. The van headed cross-country, then turned between two hills. He watched the dot move steadily north on his screen. They were out of sight when he turned after them. The road was narrow and poorly paved; he went slow to keep his tires from kicking up dust. He called Coulson again on his burner phone.

“Hello.” The gunfire was fainter now.

Clint gave his ID code and then the all-clear code. “They've turned onto a secondary country road, heading north. I'm heading in. Giving you my last known location.” He rattled off the coordinates.

“Wait a minute.” Coulson paused. “There’s an old factory a couple of kilometers ahead. Marked as abandoned.”

“Where’s the nearest trustworthy S.H.I.E.L.D. medical facility?”

“Copenhagen. But we know a doctor on the staff of the medical school in Munich. She’s trustworthy. You can take Agent Romanoff there once you recover her.”

“Sir, depending on what they did to her... this might need specialized S.H.I.E.L.D. resources.”

A pause. “I’ll alert the appropriate medical team, and contact our contractor.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. outsources this to a _contractor_?”

“She used to work directly for us. She changed jobs after she was severely injured.”

“Oh.” Clint relaxed, mollified. “Can you tell me what's happening yet?”

“No. I have to go.”

Did he actually have to go, or wasn't he in a safe place to discuss the leak? Clint wanted, badly, to know what was going on, but he had to trust Coulson. “Yeah, they've stopped moving.”

“Good luck, Clint.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

He ditched the car up a hill, with brush tossed over the rear bumper and a few saplings lashed together behind. It wouldn't fool anyone for very long, but it was as good as he was going to get. He hauled himself further up the vertical rock wall. It wasn’t too high— a couple scrambles, some skin off his hands, and he reached the top. From there, it was just several minutes of steep hiking to the top of the hill.

He lay flat on his stomach and looked out. The factory was below. It _looked_ deserted from the front, with drooping eaves and broken glass in the dark windows. But there was some sort of backing behind the broken windows that reminded him of the house in Weisbaden. And light and movement were visible through a small, high window they hadn't bothered to camouflage. The large door had a cracked front, but the tracks were shiny with frequent use. Dust was floating in the air; the door had been recently opened.

Through the high window, he saw a large garage, with vehicles and boxes of supplies. Beyond were walls and an elevator, indicating a retrofit. _Confirmed factory not deserted, full of people and trucks_ , he texted Coulson. If he didn’t make it out, S.H.I.E.L.D. would know where to look for them. Or for Natasha, and his body. They’d taken her alive, so they needed her, but the best they could get out of him would be information. That would be fun.

The whole place was surrounded by a fence topped with barbed wire, and between that and the building was a hundred feet of bare ground. Too far even in the dark, and the windows looked like they continued all the way around the building. A distraction might make them suspicious, and judging by the garage, there were far too many people in there for him to take on alone. He’d need five quivers. He needed to get in undetected, to find Nat and get out before they raised the alarm. He couldn’t count on having her help on the way out. 

Maybe he could get some other help, though. Time to get some of his own back from the bastards at S.H.I.E.L.D. who were leaking their communications. He called Coulson on his S.H.I.E.L.D. phone. “Boss.”

“Agent.”

“We’re waiting off the highway. The strike team from Paris is held up. Half of ‘em are here, but the other half got stuck down the road. They’ll be here in fifteen minutes but we’re stuck until then— sitting ducks. Any comm chatter on the Empire’s networks?”

There was a _long_ pause. “No. None.”

Clint loved Coulson’s ability to think on his feet. “Copy that. I’ll let you know before we move— doesn’t look like they know we’re here. Soon as the other half of the Paris team gets here, they’ll go around back and flank the building.”

“Understood. Good luck.”

He hung up. After about fifteen minutes, the large front door of the building creaked open. Two heavy trucks rumbled out carrying men with assault rifles. They rolled down the road and out of sight. They cut the engines before they got too far. If they found his car…

He wriggled along the ridge until he saw the trucks. The men had jumped out and were advancing down the road, fanning out into the brush. It was the Empire, all right-- same ridiculous helmets. He looked for their rear guards: only a driver. He texted Coulson from his S.H.I.E.L.D. phone: _Abort. Fell back to support Paris team._ Then he turned it off, hoping to disable any tracking.

He slid down the hill, aided by his dark clothes against the dark foliage, and stayed out of the way of the rearview mirrors as he crawled on his belly behind one of the trucks. He grabbed the undercarriage and shifted awkwardly until he wasn't easily visible from behind, wouldn't burn himself on the tailpipe or choke on the exhaust, and wouldn't get crushed by the wheels. Then he waited.

Returning footsteps, and a shout: “Go back. We can't find them, they retreated. The other truck will pursue. We need to secure the building, it may be a trap.”

The truck rocked as the soldiers climbed aboard. He winced as the engine roared to life; it was deafening. He clung grimly to the frame of the truck and tried not to think about what would happen if he’d grabbed onto something that would fall off or heat up.

The truck reversed awkwardly in the lane; he choked on the dust, and then on the fumes. _Hang on._ It wasn’t that far— he grabbed harder with his cramping hands, and pictured their position in his head. They should be in sight of the fence now— coming up on it— he ran through his mental picture of the inside of the building. It wasn’t very complete. He’d need to do reconnaissance once he got inside.

The truck stopped. They were through the fence. Heavy boots walked in front of his line of sight, and pulled the gate closed with a _clang!_ The dust tickled his nose _— shit_. He couldn’t let go of the truck to pinch his nose, but if he sneezed now, the Empire goon would hear him. He held his breath and furiously repressed the urge to sneeze. _They never tell you about this in training._

When hey started moving again, his foot slipped off and slammed into the ground. He swallowed his pained noise and shoved it back into position. Luckily they’d only been going about five miles an hour, or he’d be minus one intact foot right now. He sneezed furiously, three times in a row, and prayed no one had heard over the sound of the engine. _Wouldn’t that be a shitty way to get caught? World’s greatest marksman, done in by his nose._

Then they were out of the dark, into the bright garage. The truck jerked to a stop; lots of pairs of boots jumped down and thundered past his head. “Back so soon?” someone called. “I thought you were bringing back the heads of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents as trophies!”

_If you’ve— Nat— fuck you._

Whoever he was addressing had the same sentiment. “Fuck off. We scared them away.”

Clint snorted in his mind only.

“Heard anything from our contact? He’d be able to tell us where they went.”

“No. Couldn’t you track their phones, or something?”

“ _We_ can’t. _He_ could. But he’s a bit busy right now.”

“Anything from the big boss?”

“Naw. He’s busy with the new prisoner. The one who’s supposed to be some hotshot secret agent. She didn’t give them much trouble for all that.”

“They're upstairs still?”

“Yeah.”

_Go on, tell him exactly where they are, and recite the access code too_. But the man was immune to Clint’s telepathy.

“Can’t stay to chat. We’re going to guard the perimeter. Have fun in here with your wrenches and oilcans.”

The second man didn’t respond— verbally. The first man’s footsteps receded. Clint waited, and finally eased himself to the ground, flexing cramped, stiff muscles.

He looked around. They were parked near the wall, but across the room from the elevator and stairs. Could he find— they had to have extra helmets somewhere, didn't they?

There were no feet pointed his way. He wriggled out from under the truck and made it to the wall, crouching in the scant cover of a stack of crates. If anyone looked directly at him, he’d be obvious. He pried open the top crate. No dorky helmets, but grenades; he tucked a couple in his pockets. He wriggled along the wall, staying low, and hoped no one had an urgent grenade need. 

No helmets in the next crate. This was a stupid idea anyway. One more box, and he actually found them. They were made out of stiff cloth, and it was easy to pull them through the little opening. He unfolded it— it was just as ridiculous-looking up close, but it would hide his face. He tugged it over his head. It limited his vision and muffled his hearing. _Whoever designed this was an idiot who’d never been in combat_. He double-checked the positions of the others in the garage—

— and discovered what he hadn’t been able to see from under the truck: they’d taken their helmets off when they got inside. He ducked—

“Hey, why are you still out here, you should be back with the others!”

_This day keeps getting better_. “I got my helmet stuck. They told me to get it fixed or I’d be a liability. I was looking for some heavy scissors.” He pinpointed the footsteps approaching from two places.

“How did you get it stuck?” 

_Can’t let them get close_ — “It’s caught around my— Hey! What the--” He pointed his gun at the door. The two men whirled, drawing their own weapons. He put a throwing knife into one back, lunged forward, and walloped the other guy over the head with his pistol. They both went down. He ran for it.

Someone would find the bodies soon. He tore the helmet off as he ran. The reduction in his vision and hearing wasn’t worth it if he would be conspicuous anyway. He made it to the elevator and slowed to a walk— 

— and nearly barreled into four guys with rifles. “Who the hell are you?” the one in front demanded.

“What’d you _mean_ who the hell am I?”

The man frowned— Clint shoved him into the man behind him, stabbed a third man, and hit the fourth with his gun. The first man staggered, and brought his rifle towards Clint. But Clint was faster; he ducked under his guard, smashed the rifle into his face, tossed it away, and grabbed the stunned man to use as a meat shield. The last man dropped his rifle and grabbed his pistol— Clint kicked past his shield and landed a solid blow in the man’s nuts— he collapsed, retching. A sound from behind, the whisper of cloth, made him drop. A shot— a bullet flew over his head and buried itself in the first man’s guts. Clint kept falling and rolled, out of range of the garage. He used his last throwing knife to kill the man showing the fastest signs of recovery, and sprinted onwards. The elevator was too obvious— the stairs could be a killbox— someone would have heard the shot, and they’d be— 

— coming down the stairs, probably. He barreled backwards and slammed the button for the elevator. Thank God, it came quickly and was empty when it opened. There were four floors and a basement. He hit the button for every one, and flattened himself inside the door.

The doors slid open on the second floor. He dove through low, into a crude kitchen that showed signs of being hastily abandoned. Footsteps thundered past ten feet away, but they were headed for the stairs, around the corner.

Well, almost abandoned. A man cursed as he fumbled with his gun belt. Clint bounded across the room. The man looked up, but Clint grabbed him, twisted the man's at a painful angle until he dropped his gun, put his other hand over the man’s mouth, spun him, and put his arm across his throat. Pressure on the blood vessels, but not the windpipe. “Where are they keeping the spy? The woman?”

The man was silent.

Clint tightened his arm. “ _Where?_ ” He was going to have to get rough in a second.

The man made a frantic noise. Clint took his hand away. “Third floor,” he rasped. “On the far end. In the hospital.”

Clint tightened his hold.

“I’m telling you, the— third—“ He slumped.

Clint shoved him in the nearest unoccupied closet and stuck a chair under the handle. _You should have killed him_ , his mind whispered as he raced down the hall, then skidded to a stop, hesitating between the elevator and the stairs. _He might get you killed. He might get Natasha killed_.

Fuck it. There were some things Clint wouldn’t do unless he had to. He had enough blood on his hands that he didn’t add more indiscriminately.

Stairs and elevator were both bad options. The Empire'd be out front and out back by now, but they wouldn’t be looking up. No one ever looked up. He pried open the nearest window and looked out. Yeah: helmeted guards were swarming the yard, but they were facing away. He climbed out and pulled himself up. His fingers cramped as he put his weight on inadequate finger holds. He made it one story up, and got tenuous purchase on the narrow ledge, enough to shake out his bow. This was no worse than filling in for Drunk Dick on the high routine with a rotted net stretched out below him. He nocked an arrow— couldn’t shoot up and over the building, no room to be fancy— and shot at the farthest corner of the fence. Let them think he was trying to escape. The fence blew up. As the fireball blossomed, he covered his face and smashed in the window. By the time the sound of the explosion died away, he’d unlocked the window and climbed inside.

_On the far end._ Could be a trap. He nocked another arrow and crept through the room— this floor was dark. But he could see light ahead.

One of the doors opened. Clint didn’t have time to duck before a big man barreled through it. He saw Clint— but Clint was fast, and put an arrow through his throat before he could shout. The man collapsed, neck broken from the force of the shot. Clint sprinted forward, nocking another arrow.

There were two soldiers in the room. He shot one— _not enough time_ — and threw himself flat as the second shot. A countdown started in his head, of minutes until someone came to investigate the gunshot. He kept rolling, nocked another arrow, came up, and shot the soldier, in one fluid move. He died with a gurgle. Clint collapsed his bow and grabbed his gun to free one of his hands. Huddled against the wall was a tech in surgical garb. And strapped to the one bed in the room was Natasha, eyes closed, and that damned well wasn’t saline solution running through the drip in her hand.

She was muttering, broken and incoherent. Far too much like Amsterdam. He leveled the gun at the tech. “Who’s in charge here?”

“Th-the one you shot.”

That didn’t narrow things down. Never mind. “Show me how to unhook these so she doesn’t get hurt, or I’ll start shooting the limbs you don’t need.”

“All right. All— I’ll— I’ll disconnect her.” He scurried over to the IV poles and started unhooking tubes. 

“How long’ve they had her in here?”

“About twenty minutes. Well, longer, but that was prep.”

“Prep?” He raised the gun a little higher.

“Us! Not for her. Making sure we had all the chemicals. She was just strapped down, and then we gave her the juice.” He disconnected the second-to-last line.

“They gave her something when they captured her. It knocked her out. What was it? Was she unconscious the whole time?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I mean, yes she was unconscious the whole time, but no I don’t know what it was. They didn’t get it from me.” He fumbled with the last line. “Probably ‘cause I wouldn’t even fucking _stock_ something like that,” he muttered.

“But you did give her this. What is it?”

“I, I, they gave it to me, some of the names were blocked out on the package, there’s a stabilizing agent and the main one is a hallucinogen—“

_Shit_. “Your bosses weren’t very smart, were they.” Then again, keeping her too disoriented to try to break free--

“Um.”

“I don’t know what they told you, but you’ve got one of the world’s best assassins strapped down there, and when she wakes up and decides you’re a threat, you’re not gonna live out the hour. Maybe I can stop her, maybe I can’t. So if there’s anything you can do to mitigate the—“

“Antagonist!” The tech scrabbled frantically on the table. “I’ll inject her now and give you the rest to, uh, take with.” He looked up and cringed. “You, uh, you’re taking her, right?”

Clint smiled thinly. “Yes. But if you’re lying and that stuff kills her, I can make shots from a very _long_ distance. And some of these—“ he patted his quiver--“wouldn’t kill you quick.”

“No, God, no!” The tech opened the package. “This one is P4RO6-dialpha— Do you, uh, want me to write that—“

“No.” Clint watched him swab the crook of Natasha’s elbow. He was trembling like a leaf, but his hands were steady— and gentle. Clint took a stab in the dark: “You should find a new job.”

That seemed to be the right guess— it unleashed a torrent of words. “— _torture._ Was supposed to be— a medic! Staying on call for, for, a-activists practicing sep-sep-separatism.”

Clint rolled his eyes. How naivë did you have to be to hear words like that and not immediately think _cult_ or worse? 

The tech put the syringe in. “Didn’t know how to get out. Don’t suppose— Don’t suppose your, um, your organization is hiring?”

Clint smiled thinly again. “Might be. But I just threatened to kill you slowly. You don’t know we’re any better.”

“I kn-know you’re loyal enough to come after her, a-and you don’t like the torture.” He disposed of the needle. Then his hand hovered over the restraints. “Um. Uhhhhhh.”

“Move.” Gun still leveled at him, Clint started undoing the restraints. Natasha was already quieting down, her muttering less agitated. He gave her a quick onceover— few bruises, no broken bones. Maybe the tech was telling the truth, and “all” they’d done to her was drug her. “Give me the rest of that stuff. Does any of it, any of what you gave her have any lasting side effects?”

“It _shouldn’t_ …” He held out his hand. Clint took and pocketed the two syringes and two vials. Then he undid the ankle restraints.

“Administer one in thirty minutes and another in an hour. If you do it too soon she could die. Seizures, coma, brain swelling.”

“Okay.” Clint looked the tech up and down. He wasn’t much younger than Clint, but if they were going by life experience, he was decades younger. “If they find out you helped me, they’ll kill you. Pretend I hit you over the head.” He holstered his gun. The tech didn’t move. He took his bow off his shoulder, picked Natasha up gently, put her over his other shoulder, and nocked an arrow. Shooting was going to be nearly impossible. “They got her stuff here?”

“No, they brought her in like that.” The tech looked at the two of them. “How are you going to—“ 

“By being better than them.” He checked the corridor: clear. 

He made for the other end. It was dangerous to leave the kid alive and free— he could be calling downstairs right now, or even getting a weapon— but if he was really what he seemed, then it would be cruel to lock him in the room when he wanted to run for his life and when Clint was likely going to blow up large parts of the building. Clint was trusting his life to his character assessment— worse, he was trusting Natasha’s life, who hadn’t gotten a say in the matter.

But he'd done that sort of thing before, like in Klaipeda. And he wasn’t going to go around killing people who weren’t a real threat. Not unless he had to. Maybe it would get him killed, but there were worse things than being dead. A lot of ‘em.

With Nat over his shoulder, calling the elevator was the best option. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. He put his back to the wall and waited. The people made it up the stairs before the elevator. He shot an explosive into the stairwell as soon as the door opened. The elevator dinged. He ducked blindly inside and grabbed another arrow— But it was empty. A couple people appeared in the hallway as he jammed the “door close” button. A bullet whistled past his ear and buried itself in the back of the car before the doors finally closed.

He adjusted Nat’s weight. When the elevator reached the ground floor, he was ready. As soon as the doors opened, he shot his bullet arrowhead through, jammed “door close,” and counted to three. The arrow went off. He heard the _fizz-pop_ of the bullets, and hit “door open.” He steadied Nat, nocked an arrow— her weight over his shoulder made it hard to extend his arm full-length, to get a strong and precise shot— and dove through the door. Nat’s weight threw off his balance. He recovered, scrambled through the elevator foyer, shot the nearest gunman, and dove behind the nearest jeep.

He needed to pick a vehicle and disable the rest, fast, before they got all their men down here. He spun and shot a gas arrowhead into the elevator right before the doors closed. Then he shot one of his two remaining explosive arrowheads into the stairwell. He sliced open the nearest jeep’s front tires and took advantage of the chaos to scramble to the next jeep. He slashed those tires, too, and then found the vehicle he wanted: an armored truck parked two spots away. But there were a lot of men massing at the end of the next aisle, and soon someone was going to decide the damage to the vehicles from a grenade was worth taking him out—

_Right. Grenade._

He dug it out of his pocket and then had to grab Nat with the same hand to keep her from falling. _Sorry, Nat_. Nearly stuffing a grenade down your partner's pants: not great teamwork.

He pulled the pin and rolled the grenade hard under the jeep. It hit the tire of a vehicle across the way and banked straight down the aisle, like a perfectly-timed, explosive, cue ball. He counted, and hauled them both behind the nearest tire. The jeep rocked. He grabbed Nat and charged towards the heavy truck. Halfway there, a bullet grazed his leg. He whirled, arrow coming up, but it had been from behind him— his balance shifted. Something exploded near his ear. Nat slid down from his shoulder under her own power, still holding his gun.

“You know who and where you are?”

“Yes.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t been holding. Really. “Welcome back. Can you see straight?”

“No. Is there anything in this room I shouldn’t shoot?”

“Me.”

She popped up over the truck and fired four quick shots. “Target?”

“Armored truck. Right there.” He shot a man who was too far out of cover, pinning him to the tire. Two for one. “We’re short on time.”

“I don’t see an armored truck,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“What _do_ you see?”

“Later.” She got off two more shots.

He zeroed in on the largest vehicle in the garage and guessed at the location of the fuel tank. Hell, if he set it on fire right, it wouldn’t matter if he made a direct hit on the fuel tank. He shot through the windows of the truck they were hiding behind, through the windows of his target, into the seats. The arrow ignited. The interior caught. Smoke trickled out the window. He jerked his head towards the truck they wanted. He held up two fingers, one, then they stood and broke around the jeep, firing as they went.

The tank on the truck he’d shot caught as they were halfway to their target. _Setting a huge explosion in an enclosed space is a terrible idea_. He threw himself forward out of the direct path of the blast wave, grabbed Natasha, and dragged them both into the side of the truck as a wave of fire and debris blew past. He yanked open the door, shoved her inside, and dove in after her. A bullet blew through the window. Not armored glass. They needed to go.

He sliced open the console panel and looked for the right wires. Natasha opened the glove compartment and dangled the keys in front of his face. He jammed them in the ignition. The truck roared to life. He veered hard left, putting the bulk of the truck between them and their attackers. “Shoot the fuel tanks on the far wall!” He floored it towards the exit.

She leaned over, unzipped his pocket, and grabbed two clips. She reloaded, rolled down the window, and started shooting everything in sight.

Right. Hallucinating.

The fuel tanks went up nicely. The whole garage was burning merrily now. He handed her the last grenade. “Throw it THAT way!” He pointed back the way they’d come.

She gave him a look that seemed to say, _I know my directions_ , pulled the pin, and tossed the grenade. They felt the explosion. He floored it to get away from their pursuit, but there wasn’t any. Everyone was dead, dying, or putting out fires. “Hold on—“ He braced himself, and rammed through the fence. Barbed wire scraped across the top of the truck with a _screech_ , and then they were through.

Nat fumbled at the door. “Go back.”

“What? No, why?”

“Need to find— kill— the guy.”

“The one in charge? Did that already.”

“Oh.” Apparently he’d guessed correctly, because she settled back. “Well. As long as you did it.”

He checked again for pursuit, saw none, and made a split-second decision as they reached the car he’d hidden. There might still be one truck of Empire goons out there, but this truck was conspicuous, and might be trackable. He braked hard and put the truck broadside across the road. Then he grabbed the keys and handed a knife to Natasha. “When I tell you to, slash the tires.”

He scrambled out and clawed the brush away until he could get at the car. The Empire hadn’t found it and disabled it: “Go!”

As he sawed through the rope holding the trees together, Nat appeared around the side of the truck and staggered up the hill, stabbing at the air in front of her. “Hey.” He moved into her field of vision but not into her range. “Nothing there. C’mon.” They got in the car; he reversed down the hill and floored it to the road.

They reached it without any sign of pursuit, but he needed to be able to shoot down anything that came after them. Nat could— no, giving her control of the car was probably a bad idea. Instead he handed her his bow and quiver. He tapped out the pattern for his last explosive arrowhead, then handed her the arrow. “Need you to watch the sky. Try to shoot down anything that comes after us. But don’t shoot unless you’re sure. Or give me the bow if there’s time.” 

She leaned out the window and stared up. “Is there something there?” She pointed straight ahead and up. “I see a big vulture eating children, I know that’s not right, but I can’t tell if it’s something else.”

_Jesus_. He checked the sky. “No. It’s clear.”

“Oh.” She leaned back. She was shaking. 

Clint turned the heat up as far as it would go. He didn’t want her handling that arrowhead with shaking hands. “Coulson said there was a doctor in Munich who would help—“

“ _No_.”

She looked terrible, shaking, pale, and sweating. “Nat—“

“No. No doctors. They could hurt me.”

“Nat—“ _You’re hallucinating. You’re not in your right mind. You’ve got stuff in your veins and we don’t know what it does_. _You need_ — But she’d just been strapped down and injected with strange drugs. She was vulnerable. He couldn’t terrify her by dragging her to a doctor, even if she really needed it. He couldn’t make what the Empire had done worse. “Okay.” He fumbled in his pocket. “The tech injected this into you right before I got you out. It’s an antagonist for one of the drugs. He said it would help. Take one in fifteen minutes and the other in forty-five.”

She took it without question, which worried him. She was shaking so badly that he thought he was going to have to pull off the road and load the syringe for her, but she managed it, and plunged it into her arm. The muscles of her face tightened. He looked back at the road just in time to veer around a livestock truck. “Hurts?”

“Yes.” Her voice was a hiss. He glanced back at the road and then back at Nat. Her eyes were clenched tight. 

“S.H.I.E.L.D.’s got a safe house in Frankfurt. It’s not ideal but it’s on Coulson’s list. Just keep it together. We can hole up there.”

“Coulson’s list?” Her voice was weak.

“Some of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s safe houses are distributed. Redundancy. Some are on the general list, some are only known to certain upper-level agents. Each agent has a slightly different list.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

It worried him that she didn’t argue. He’d only seen her semi-functional like this once before, and the fewer comparisons made to Amsterdam, the better.

But it could be worse. At least she trusted him.

*

She was so cold. The antidote burned like fire, but she was glad. It stopped the shaking, and she was fairly certain the burning sensation was real. She wanted to inject the next one, but she couldn’t. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep, but she couldn’t. She had to stay awake or the world would crumble beneath her...

She heard Clint talking to someone-- Coulson-- but understanding the words took too much effort.

_They took me. They held me down. They injected me._ It shortened into a terrifying mantra that lurched along with her heartbeat: _Got me. Held me. Injected me_. Below that, a wail: _It happened again_.

She gagged at the thought of that room. They’d strapped her down and pumped her full of drugs, and _she’d been_ _helpless_. She fingered her head, looking for any signs that they’d opened up her skull.

“Hang in there. It’s not far.”

“I don’t need your fucking pity.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know. Humor me.”

Her laugh startled her, a tortured sound that seemed to wring its way out of her throat. This was unreal. How did she know it _was_ real? How did she know any of it was real? “Are you real?”

“Yep.”

“How do you know?”

“‘Cause if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t hurt so bad after every mission.”

She wanted to scoff at that, but it was true. She’d hallucinated pain before— Amsterdam— but the vast majority of the pain she’d experienced had been very real. But the air was full of floating shapes and colors that didn’t exist in nature instead of the dark fields and houses she knew were there. She pulled her feet up on the seat, wrapped her arms around her legs, and buried her face against her knees. She shook and shook and couldn’t stop. _It happened again. It happened again. It happened again._ She couldn’t even— couldn’t even fight, or plan to stay safe. She was caught in the grip of the drugs and overwhelmed by sick horror.

The car stopped. Clint turned off the engine. She struggled out of her seatbelt and got the door open without having to open her eyes. Clint was there by the time she got out. “Safe house is six blocks from here.”

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Her vision doubled and tripled. Conflicting layers slid over each other. She faintly saw something that looked like a sidewalk, and Clint beside her. He wrapped his arm around her, and they stumbled down the sidewalk, just an ordinary man and his drunk girlfriend going home after a late night at the pub.

Clint and the things near him stayed in focus. Her brain was using additional sensory input to correct wrong perception; since she could feel him, hear him, and smell him, her brain decided that his appearance was real, too. But the rest— well, she _assumed_ those were cars and bicycles instead of enormous, limbless babies. “All those shitty diapers.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Oh, fuck, this was awful. _Not as bad as Amsterdam_ , she chanted. She couldn’t trust all of her senses, but she could trust her mind. She knew who she was. She was Natasha Romanoff, copyright circa 2007 Natasha Romanoff, with creative input from Clint Barton and Phil Coulson. 

But she wasn’t entirely new. And she would never be wholly free of her past. The Red Room’s voices oozed out of the poisonous parts of her mind: _You’re weak. You’re a failure. You were helpless. You needed rescue. You’re worthless. You’re_ —

“At least I’m not _dead_ ,” she spat.

“Yes—“

“— unlike you.”

“… Okay.”

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Yeah. Figured.” He caught her when she tripped over a crack in the pavement. “Okay. Here.” He stopped in front of an unassuming door. She stood where she would block his motions from the street. He flipped open a hidden panel, entered a code, and pressed his thumb to the pad. The door _clicked_ ; he opened it, and she followed him inside.

The door opened on a set of stairs that looked like a waterfall. She dodged a rock, and stumbled. Clint steadied her. At the bottom of the staircase was another reinforced door and another keypad. She followed him inside, and leaned against the wall as he shut it and scrambled the code.

They were in a large room. There was a bank of monitors along one wall. As Clint flipped switches, they sprang to life, showing various views of the outside of the building, and the staircase. There was a table large enough to hold briefings for a small strike team, several cabinets, a couple of cots along one wall, a sink and a hot plate on a counter, and a claustrophobically small bathroom.

She watched over Clint’s shoulder as he studied the monitors. Neon pink blotches floated across her vision. Her mind couldn’t decide what it was seeing. The room fuzzed around the edges. She was cold all over. She felt her way to the cot, sank down, and wrapped the blanket around her. It didn’t really help. She kept seeing things that she knew didn’t exist anywhere in the world. 

“Hey.”

She looked up at Clint.

“I know you said no doctors, but, uh…”

“ _But?_ ” _If you finish that sentence with ‘I called one anyway’—_

“Do you need, uh, shots or anything?”

_Shots?_ She was too tired to beat around the bush. “Clint, are you trying to ask if they raped me?”

When he winced, she knew she had it. “I’m… just trying to make sure you get what you need.”

“No.” She remembered everything-- through a distorted filter, so that ‘everything’ didn’t make a lot of sense. But she would have remembered that. “No, I don’t need those.”

“Okay.”

“They’re pills.”

“What?”

“Anti-retrovirals and emergency contraception. They’re pills.”

Clint studied her for a minute. “Okay.”

She didn’t offer any more details. Let him think whatever he wanted. Whatever he thought had been the truth sometime, even if it weren’t the truth for this. She’d always had enough self-preservation to talk her marks into protection— men were so _persuadable_ when it came to her and their dicks— but sometimes plans had to change. After her first course of anti-retrovirals, she’d been very careful not to need a second course. They’d made her sick as a dog. She needed to preserve her body. It was her best weapon.

The blobs were green now. Closing her eyes helped. She stretched out on the cot and tucked the blanket more firmly around her.

She still felt detached from the world. The shaking actually helped, that way, because it reminded her that she had a body. But that body was out of her control. She forced herself to stop shaking, but as soon as she stopped thinking about it, it started again.

“Cameras are working. Building’s clear.”

She nodded, though she didn’t know if he was looking in her direction.

“Hey.” His clothes rustled as he crossed the room. “Are you—“

“I’ll be fine.” Her voice sounded like someone else’s. It was true, she _would_ be fine, but right now, she was adrift. She shivered uncontrollably.

“I’m gonna try to warm you up, okay?”

She nodded weakly. He dragged the other cot over, and draped another blanket over her. The cot creaked as he laid down. The proximity of his body heat felt fucking fantastic. He wrapped one arm around her waist. She shifted forward until her body was pressed up against his, resting her forehead against the fabric of his sweatshirt.

Slowly, the overwhelming sensory input died down. She could think again.

She felt safe. But she could not relax, because feelings were deceptive.

Her capture had not been coincidence. She was sure of this because she'd been sure of it before they injected her. She'd known it as soon as they'd ambushed her in the alley. They'd been expecting her.

The most likely explanation was that someone had sold her out.

There was no one she trusted more than Clint-- no one, on the planet. And no one had had a better opportunity to do it than he had.

She'd taken one of his knives as he'd helped her from the car, because the Empire had taken all of hers. He hadn't noticed, but he might have by now. It was under the pillowcase. She wrapped her hand around it.

She didn't want to hurt him. Whether that was an acceptable weakness remained to be seen. But she wouldn't let him hurt her.

“Nat,” he said, “is this a 'I feel safer with a weapon' thing, or is it something else?”

She didn't answer.

His hand slid under the pillowcase and closed over hers. “Nat.”

Her hand tightened.

“If you want me gone, you can make that happen by saying 'Clint, go away.' Not by stabbing me.”

If she let go of the knife, he could grab it and use it against her. 

What reason would he have to sell her out? He could have killed her before. What could have changed? Had someone offered him money? Would that tempt him?

“Let go of my wrist,” she said.

“Natasha--”

“ _Let. Go_.”

He hesitated. She heard him take a breath. Then the pressure eased, and he pulled his fingers back. His whole body was tense; he was ready to grab her hand if he had to.

She shoved the sheath off the edge of the cot where neither of them could easily reach it.

“I didn't betray you.”

“I know,” she said, face still pressed against his sweatshirt. “But you would say the same thing if you had.”

He didn't have an answer. But-- he'd been the one to get her out. If he'd sold her out, either the rescue had been part of a master plan all along, and he was just a sadist, or he'd had a change of heart. Or the Empire's torture had been a cover for doing something to her. Something she hadn't even noticed yet.

_No_. There was a difference between paranoias. One was required; the other was crippling. She could not afford to be crippled. But it was so hard not to, when--

The words ran through her head in time with his heartbeat: _They got me. They drugged me. Again. They got me. They drugged me. Again._

_No!_ She smushed her face further into his chest. It was comforting to know that even if she opened her eyes, she wouldn’t be able to see anything— nothing for her brain to pervert and turn into something else. They had gotten her, and held her, and now that Clint had broken her out, she would do her damnedest to make sure they had no influence over her.

She unwrapped her arms from around her torso, and let them rest against the radiator that was Clint. “You’re warm.”

She felt more than heard his _huff_ of laughter. “You’re not.” He shifted. “Do you know what they gave you?”

“No.” She searched her memory— the room, the table and the— _No_.

“Hey. It’s okay, you’re safe.”

She’d tensed up without even noticing. She made herself relax, major muscle group by major muscle group. 

“No one’s gonna find us here. If Fury himself tries to come through that door, I will stop him.”

She pictured that confrontation, and for the second time since he’d broken her out, laughed. She managed to stop before it turned into hysteria. “It’s not just what’s out there. It’s what’s… in here.” She turned her head a bit so she was audible. She’d given up trying to stop the shaking, had relaxed against Clint, and now was shivering harder than before. It wasn’t just because she was cold. _Damn it. I must have control of my body. It is my best weapon_. _I must not show him my vulnerabilities._

“Shhh. It’s okay.” It ws the single most asinine and patronizing thing Clint had ever said to her, but she found herself _appreciating_ it. _Oh God, I really am crazy_.

“No, you’re not.”

She’d spoken out loud. “You can’t know that.”

“I’ve _seen_ your crazy. It’s worse than this.”

She thought, then conceded the point. Her memories of Amsterdam were patchy, and wrapped up in her hallucinations. He knew what she’d said and done better than he did.

“Want me to sing you a lullaby?” His voice vibrated with the ghost of a laugh.

“Want me to demonstrate three ways to incapacitate someone in three seconds?” But his joking offer made her feel disturbingly warm. She would never, _ever_ admit that. But if anyone had ever made that offer before, she couldn’t remember. _God, Romanoff, get a grip. You’re an assassin, not a greeting card writer_.

One of his hands was on the pillow by her head. He stroked her hair, lightly. Reflexively, she grabbed his wrist, hard, and forced his hand away.

He made a pained noise and pulled out of her grip— but not away from her. “Sorry.”

“Sorry,” she said at the same time. She grimaced. “Sorry.” _Clint, you_ dope, _you can't be for real with that._

“No, it’s…”

She licked her lips. “The man,” she said, “Who… One of the… Some of the—“ She searched for the right words to dance around— _oh, hell_. “Who _taught_ me sex. Would pet my hair and tell me I was a good girl.” Her stomach still churned. She hadn’t really been a girl any more— just months from her first missions— but Ivan was a sadist who got off on power and humiliation, and he loved to remind her that she was powerless.

Had been. Ivan had been a sadist. Now he was dead.

Clint tensed. She braced herself for whatever stupid offer of revenge he was going to make. “God, Natasha, I’m sorry.”

His pity should bother her. But it was too honestly offered. She shrugged. “He’s dead.” In the end, that was what mattered to her. Thinking about that was a more effective relaxation technique than deep breathing or muscle groups.

She reached back and touched Clint’s arm that was wrapped around her waist. “Um… um, here’s okay.”

“You want— okay.” He began to rub small circles at the small of her back. She didn’t even bother pretending to herself that it didn’t feel good. _My body is my most effective weapon. But it is_ my body. _My own. I may use it how I will._

Her shakes were starting to ease. Multiple senses were confirming Clint’s proximity: she felt his warmth, felt his fingers on her back, smelled him, and heard his breathing. Just to be sure, she licked his sweatshirt. It tasted like cotton and gunpowder, and felt fibrous on her tongue.

“… uhhh. What.”

“I like to be cautious.”

“That,” he said, “makes absolutely no sense in context.”

She snorted.

“Should I, I don’t know, leave you and my sweatshirt alone in a dark corner?”

“More fun than with Agent Mulligan,” she muttered.

“I’m making a no licking rule. Just-- _don’t_.”

“Okay.” She opened her eyes. Clint’s dark, bland-tasting sweatshirt filled her field of vision. Not much scope for hallucination there. But her brain was talented. She closed her eyes again just in case. Her time sense was messed up, but she thought it was time for the last round of drugs. She pulled away and took out the syringe and the vial. She opened her eyes and let them adjust to the light. The blobs were pale now, and everything else seemed to correspond with reality. She loaded the syringe and injected its contents. Fire burned through her arm and her blood. She hissed, and lay back against Clint as the warmth spread. A severed head appeared in front of her, turned into a death’s head, and then into a snake. She closed her eyes again.

“You warmer?”

“Yeah.” The cot shifted as he rolled away. She grabbed his wrist. “Stay. Please.”

He made a surprised noise, and froze.

She let go immediately, startled herself. _Ten minutes ago you thought he'd betrayed you. The closer you let him, the better opportunity he will have._

_… I know._

“If. If you want to. I— Clint, you’re the most stable thing in this room for me right now.”

“Okay. Sure.” He settled back on the cot, and tucked his arm around her.

_That’s it?_ It was that easy? _This is weakness_ , the Red Room whispered.

_No. This is freedom_.

“Could you sleep if it were darker? Probably’d help.”

She didn’t want to dream about-- any of it. But with the antidote, she might actually sleep. “Yeah.”

He shifted off the cot and padded over to the far wall. She had a ready-made opportunity to roll away, now, with no awkwardness. It was enough that her own head was screaming at her: _Physical touch is for exploitation. This comfort is weakness_. _You got caught and now you are compounding your failure._ Her cheeks burned with shame— but, damn it, she had no reason _for_ shame. _This is my choice._ “Shut the fuck up,” she muttered.

“Sorry?” 

Through her closed eyelids, she saw the light dim. “Not you.”

“Mm.” Clint came back to the cots, lay down, and put the blankets over both of them. His lack of hesitation reassured her: contrary to the Red Room, _he_ didn’t see anything wrong with what she’d asked. He tucked his hand against the small of her back, and started to rub again. “This okay?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. It went against everything she'd been taught, and everything she'd reinforced in herself after gaining her freedom.

But other people had touched her today as well. Many of them, and not with kindness. This was-- inducement, not to retreat from her own body. A reminder that it could bring her comfort as well as pain.

She deliberately forced herself to say: “It feels good.” _My choice. I am a weapon. And I choose to use myself for more._ “Is anything happening on the monitors?”

“No. Don’t worry, I’m keeping an eye out.”

_I’m keeping an eye out_ meant a hell of a lot more coming from Clint Barton than it did from anyone else. “Thanks for breaking me out.”

“‘course.”

_Life on the terms of the Red Room would not be tolerable_. She’d shied away from that kind of thought for a long time, because she _had_ tolerated it, for years. But she hadn’t come out intact. She’d barely come out with a _self_. The hardest thing she’d done, the absolute hardest, harder even than surviving the torture and the rape and the brainwashing, harder than holding her mind and her skin together through the missions, had been learning who she was.

She…

*

She didn’t usually wake up slowly like this. She was groggy, and she felt safe, which never happened. And she was warm. All that kept her from snapping to alertness.

She also had a headache. She cracked open her eyes. The dim lights were merciful to them. Clint was still there with her, but at some point he’d rolled onto his back, with his arms stretched over his head. Her face had ended up near his armpit. She wrinkled her nose. She probably needed a shower just as badly as he did.

She looked around the room, carefully cataloging everything she saw.

“How’s your head?” Clint asked without opening his eyes.

“I see… four light fixtures, with spiral bulbs. Six electrical sockets— European plugs, American adapters. Chairs. Table.” She described them. “None of them are colors they shouldn’t be.”

“Sounds about right.” He still hadn’t opened his eyes. _Of_ _course_ he’d noticed the electrical sockets.

“Ten monitors. Two looking on a street, six on an alley, one the roof, one the hallway outside. None showing any movement.” She looked down. “One Clint Barton. Also not showing signs of movement.”

“Gotta be careful with those Clint Bartons. Looks can be deceiving.”

“I…” she swallowed. “I feel better.”

She remembered everything that had happened. She remembered-- irrationality, uncertain ground in her own mind like the aftershocks of an earthquake. She remembered arguing with the Red Room. She remembered considering putting cold steel against his flesh.

Had that one been irrational?

“Good.” He nodded once, and sat up quickly. “I need food. You hungry?”

She was _ravenous_. “Yeah.”

“We should move soon.” He went to the cupboard. “Get somewhere… else.”

“Yeah.” She stood carefully. The ground stayed steady and stayed carpet. She went through the cabinets until she found clothes in her size. “I’m going to…” She waved at the bathroom, but he was facing away from her. “Shower. I’m going to shower.”

“Knock yourself out. Um. Or the opposite of that.”

The crooked grin felt good. “You’re a dork, Barton _._ ”

“I aim to please.”

She reveled in how good it felt to let the hot water wash away the traces of the Empire’s secret facility. It wasn’t just physical residue; it felt like psychic dirt. That was crazy, but she wouldn't deny herself the comfort of thinking it. She washed her hair, then her body. She rubbed the washcloth more gently over the angry red marks on her arms, put down the cloth, and traced each of them with her finger. They’d taken her, they’d held her down, and they’d forced drugs into her own body. Was it coincidence that they’d administered the one type of treatment most effective at keeping her incapacitated? The one treatment she found most terrifying? How would they have known, unless--

_Who would know--_

Clint had broken her out. But this wasn’t going to go away, just like that.

But he’d broken her out and gotten her back onto her feet. From here, she could fight.

Time to problem-solve or stop thinking about it. Solution: take a close look at her S.H.I.E.L.D. file, specifically Clint’s report on Amsterdam. If there was anything in there about her sensitivity to hallucinogens, then she’d know they had a problem, and would take great pleasure in hunting down whomever was responsible. Solution: train herself to cope better when hallucinating. Hardwire the fact that drugs wore off into her brain, so next time it happened— _if_ there was a next time— she wouldn’t panic as badly. Eventually, she might have broken herself out if Clint hadn’t come for her, but it wouldn’t have been pretty, or easy. She needed to figure out how they’d gotten the drop on her in the first place. Solution: need further data.

By the time she was clean and dressed, Clint had found the coffee maker and gotten it going. She bit back professions of love. He handed her a mug; she wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, and purred in the back of her throat. Finding painkillers made the coffee even better.

She turned around just in time to see a blur of motion on one of the monitors.

“Someone’s outside!” She grabbed the first handgun she saw. Clint grabbed his bow, and hit the button to scramble the door code. She knelt behind the table--

Clint lowered his bow and frowned at the monitors. A man appeared in the hallway, strode to the door, and tried to open it. “It’s Fury.”

“What?” She looked over his shoulder, but the stride and the leather trench coat were unmistakable.

He tried to open the door again. Clint scrambled the code again. “Open the _door_ ,” Fury called. It was impressive that his voice could travel through steel walls.

Clint turned on the intercom. “Sir, Agent Romanoff’s not well, she was injected with hallucinogens.”

Fury would probably translate that as _She might kill you_. “It’s fine.” She stood. “Let him in.”

Clint raised an eyebrow, but he opened the door. Fury strode in. When she saw that it _was_ him, alone, she safetied her gun. He sealed the door and gave the place a quick, very thorough, once-over. Once a paranoid spy, always a paranoid spy. She appreciated that. 

He gave her a once-over, too. “Agent Romanoff. How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

He tilted his head, studying her, still, with narrowed eyes. “Walk with me.”

Clint started forward.

“Not you. Just Agent Romanoff.”

Alarms rang in her head. Was this how S.H.I.E.L.D. terminated their agents? She left her mug on the table, and didn’t look at Clint. If Fury was leading her into an ambush, it would be very well-executed, since they knew what she could do. She could probably survive— but the _best_ case scenario was thatthis would be the last time she ever saw Clint. _I… don’t want that_.

Process that later— make sure she survived until later. She followed Fury through the door, up the stairs, and onto the dim street. He showed no qualms about turning his back on her. Her brain sketched out a small universe of possibilities for her demise: poison, administered by Fury. A knife, administered by Fury. A bomb-- no, too imprecise. It was ridiculous to think that they were going to kill her here, now, but she knew they _would_ kill her if they thought it necessary. And Fury hadn’t explained why he was there.

She scanned the nearby rooftops and windows. No glinting metal. There wouldn’t have been any, with Clint, but he was back at the safe house. She would have heard if Clint had come out behind them— and she didn’t believe he would kill her.

As far as she could risk holding that belief.

Fury was leading her further away from the safe house, and not talking. “What is it?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he said after a minute, “has a problem.”

“A problem of the ‘someone interrupted our communications’ variety, or of the ‘someone specifically set a trap for our agents’ variety?”

He looked over. “How do you know it was for you?”

She tried to pull together fragmented impressions of that room, without making herself sick in front of Fury. “They had only the one… medical room. It wasn’t sophisticated. They had no torture devices except what could be readily improvised. But they had sophisticated drugs just laying around?” She shook her head, and voiced the conclusion she really didn’t like: “I think they were expecting me, specifically.” Damn it, Fury had answered a question with a question and gotten _her_ to volunteer information.

“Tell me what happened, from the start.”

She gave him a brief summary of the entire mission, as they walked through the dark, foggy streets. Then: “What’s going on?”

Fury was enamored of his dramatic pauses. “You’re not the only agent who was set up by someone with inside information. There was a very cleverly engineered attack on Zurich. We have a mole. A high level, very clever mole.”

Did he suspect her after all? Was this his version of monologuing before he--

“I want you to find them.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Really? I seem like the best person for that job to you?”

“I have very good reason to believe it’s not you.”

“What, the fact that I got caught up in it?”

“Excuse me, Agent Romanoff, are you trying to tell me how to do my job? What do you take me for, an amateur?”

She smiled. “Of course not.”

“I,” he said, with what seemed like undue emphasis, “am _not_ an amateur.” Then he glanced over. “I'm not telling you the reason. In case I’m wrong. But consider yourself cleared, for now.”

“How kind of you.”

“I’m bringing you and Barton back to the Helicarrier. You’ll be under a reprimand, but it’ll be fake. Obviously fake. Your second layer of cover story will be that you're hunting doombots. We'll give you an elldee.”

“Doombots? Elldee?”

“Doombots come out of Latveria. They're hard to distinguish from real people. We have a piece of equipment, the LD-970, that picks up electromagnetic anomalies. It doesn't find doombots for us, but it tells us where to look.”

“Understood.”

“Consider Barton trustworthy as well. Fill him in as soon as you can, but not on S.H.I.E.L.D. property or using S.H.I.E.L.D. equipment.”

“Yes.” On the Helicarrier— that meant investigating from up close, playing spy vs. spy with the high-ranking agents there. She felt strange at the prospect of close, psychological work among some of the smartest people she’d ever met.

Oh. That feeling was excitement.

“The reprimand will be for insubordination. You’ll be temporarily transferred from Agent Coulson’s supervision to mine. It’s very difficult to get anything past him, so make it look real.”

“What?” If Fury didn't even trust Coulson--

Oh God, had it _been_ Coulson?

“Glad to see you’re getting the hang of answering back. I wasn’t sure you had it in you.”

“Fuck you. In the spirit of the deception, of course.”

“I’m sure.” He handed her a flash drive. “Don’t use it on any S.H.I.E.L.D. equipment. _Don’t_ talk to anyone about this except Barton. If you have anything to report, piss someone off badly enough that they send you to me.” His phone buzzed. “I need to go. Be careful, Agent, there’s still someone gunning for you.”

“There’s always someone gunning for me.” But she wished he would tell her more before he--

Vanished into the dawn in a swirl of his trench coat.

She was locked out of the safe house. She folded her arms and waited in front of one of the cameras. It took longer than she expected for the lock to click open. He met her downstairs, at the door to the room. “What’s going on?”

“None of your business.” _Later_ , she mouthed.

His eyebrows went up. He nodded. “Fine, keep your secrets. I didn’t want to know whether Fury’s trench coat was made out of the skin of his enemies anyway.”

Trust Clint to be unable to refrain from taking a cover story to bizarre places. But— “Is that… a possibility?”

He shrugged, looking disturbingly nonchalant. “’s Fury.” He stood back, and she realized only then that he’d been barring the way into the room. She stepped inside. His suspicion— caution— didn’t offend her. She approved. It made her feel safer about all the times he had her back.

She ate. He took his turn in the shower and came out, wrapped in a towel, to dig through the cabinets.

“It didn’t occur to you you were going to have to put clothes on?” she said around the fork.

“Nope.” The towel slipped. He grabbed it absentmindedly and hitched it back up. She looked away. There were some things she just didn’t need to know about Clint.

“How is it you’re the world’s best sniper but you can’t figure out how to wear clothes?”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

She rolled her eyes. “‘Not wearing pants’ isn’t a talent.”

“It is the way I do it.”

“Fascinating, please put some on now.”

“Nudity makes you uncomfortable?”

“The things I do in my job are not the things I like personally,” she snapped.

He turned around, looking as surprised as she felt. “Sure,” he said. “Okay. Just a sec.” He grabbed an armful of clothes off the shelf and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving her feeling embarrassed. Where had that even _come_ from? He came back out— fully clothed this time— and she wanted to say _something_ , but if this place was bugged, she wasn’t comfortable being forthcoming.

“We should go,” she said instead.

He nodded, reached into the cupboard above the sink, and held up a set of keys without jingling them. As they climbed the stairs, she felt sick. If the safe room were bugged, then whoever was on the other end had heard everything she’d said before she’d slept. That had been private. She shook off the feeling. She’d been violated in far more intimate ways than having someone overhear her secrets. Like being strapped down and forcibly injected with drugs meant to destroy her reality.

They cleared the safe house. “You gonna tell me what's going on now?”

She looked at him, not trying to hide the appraisal in her stare. He looked back with equal consideration.

It came down to this, then: now, here, did she trust him?

People were mutable, unpredictable, and untrustworthy. But she was Natasha Romanoff, and she figuratively-- mostly-- dissected people for a living. There was nothing in Clint that would explain why he would have betrayed her.

The first thing she'd ever learned about him was that he'd thrown away a clean kill shot because he thought she was better than her reputation. 

She took a deep breath, and put it into as few words as possible. “S.H.I.E.L.D. has a leak. The mole caused something in Zurich. Fury doesn't think it's me, and doesn't think it's you. He’s going to fake an insubordination charge against me to get me transferred to the Helicarrier and reporting directly to him— don’t know how he’s going to get you there. And then we’ll hunt down this bastard.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Clint asked with a sidelong glance.

She smiled appreciatively. “You don't. But feel free to call Fury.”

“What's the insubordination charge?”

“I'm going to call Coulson and tell him I'm not coming right back because I found evidence of other Red Room survivors.”

“Ah.” Clint seemed to include a wealth of tone in that monosyllable. Another sidelong glance. She waited. He scratched the back of his head. “I'm curious what you’d do if you really found that evidence, but ‘spose it’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s not.” She paused. “I haven’t the faintest fucking idea.” _So it's a good thing it's not real._

But she wished, desperately, that it were real.

“Coulson,” Clint began said.

“He's not on the clear list. It’s only you and me.”

“Coulson’s _not_ the mole.”

“Then you convince Fury,” she retorted.

“Okay. And while I'm doing that, you will... ?”

She hesitated. Was partial trust more or less potentially disastrous than full trust? “He gave me a flash drive. I'm going to buy a clean computer and look at it.”

They rounded the corner. Clint nodded to one of the cars parked there, an unmarked S.H.I.E.L.D. sedan. They continued down the street and stopped on the other side of a 24/7 shop. There shouldn’t be anything in the car that could pick up their voices from outside— but still. The shop would cover their voices, and their presence. “Sorry about your pants.”

He glanced down. “They’re S.H.I.E.L.D. issue, don't blame them on me.”

What? “No, for— earlier.”

“Oh. I wasn’t _trying_ to make you uncomfortable.”

“I was— just teasing you. But I, um… I’m a bit off-kilter at the moment.” She said the last part softly.

“Understood.”

“Even at S.H.I.E.L.D., people assume I'm the people I pretend to be.” It was partially true— once she’d been them, even once, they were always somewhere inside her. But that distinction was lost on the men who just wanted to persuade themselves she really did want them. And the occasional woman who thought the same thing, but they tended to be more discreet and respectful about it.

“I know you’re not.”

Yeah. That was part of the problem. Clint _knew_ who she was— knew her better than anyone else did or ever had. She didn’t have problems with trusting him with her life, the necessary precautions of spy vs. spy notwithstanding. But their relationship was becoming— _intimate_ , in a way that had nothing to do with sex or with saving each other’s lives. She had absolutely no idea what to _do_ with that. She shouldn't allow it, but apparently, she was. She could pretend it was all part of the job, about nothing more than operating at her peak efficiency, but— the fact remained that it meant something to Natasha Romanoff, person, and not just Natasha Romanoff, secret agent.

Denial seemed like a good option at the moment. She had bigger problems.

“So I need to convince Coulson, what, that you ran off on your wild goose chase?”

“I’ll call him and request leave. He’s probably going to say no, since we’re still technically in the middle of a mission. I’ll go anyway. Then he’ll probably call you in for a debrief. You can fill him in with the details.”

He nodded once. “And if Director Fury hasn’t made other arrangements already, I’ll get myself on the Helicarrier by the time you get back.”

“It’s a plan.” She knew Clint had left _make sure you’re really innocent_ off his to-do list. She looked forward to seeing what Fury had come up with. Hell, it would make her life and her job easier— she wanted to know. “I'll see you there.”

He got in the S.H.I.E.L.D. car and pulled into traffic. She walked the other way until she found somewhere to buy a burner phone. She waited at least an hour, to give Clint time to get convincingly away. Then she dialed Coulson.

He answered on the second ring. “Hello.”

“Coulson. It’s Agent Romanoff.” She recited her ID code and the clear code.

“Are you all right?”

She hesitated. “I’m fine. But they got my phone.” _And probably samples of my DNA._

“I locked it down as soon as Barton said you were taken,” he assured her. “Get to Copenhagen. I’ll meet you there.”

“No.”

Pause. “What?”

“No. Coulson, I can’t. I need—“ She let her voice go shaky. It was disturbingly easy. “I need to take some time.”

Another pause. “How much time?”

_What_? This wasn't supposed to go this way. “I don’t _know_.” She made herself sound exasperated, then pulled back. She couldn’t overdo it. Coulson knew her, knew how much she hated appearing vulnerable, and had seen her slip into someone else’s skin many times. “Just, uh—“ She swallowed. “Coulson-- I found evidence that-- in the room. When they drugged me. They were talking about brain chemistry. They mentioned 'the others like her.'” Pause. “I'm tracking down the lead.” 

Silence. Then: “How good of a lead is it?”

“I don’t _know_. But it’s the only one I’ve ever seen. _Someone_ —“ she let her voice quiver a little— “someone knew to tell the Empire to pump me full of hallucinogens. Someone else knows about this. Someone is in S.H.I.E.L.D., working from the inside, and they’re going after me. They might be going after the other Red Room survivors as well.”

“Natasha, it could be a setup.” Coulson sounded unhappy.

“I know. I’m being careful. I can’t— I can’t leave someone out there who’s going to keep gunning for me like this. What if… one of the others is behind this all?” She let her voice shake again, not too much, just enough to be barely noticeable.

A _long_ pause. “How long do you need?” His voice was subdued.

_What? Coulson, what are you doing?_ Was he really the mole, and this was a ploy to get her out of the way? “I don’t know where this trail will take me. I don’t know what I’m going to find at the other end.”

He sighed. “You can have a week. I’ll put the request in for you. But Natasha—“ He sounded deeply unhappy again. “This isn’t going to go well for you. My advice would be to take the week and get yourself back together. Don’t pin your hopes on chasing rabbit trails. Especially when the rabbits have sharp teeth.”

“I’m _fine_.” She hung up, and hope that was insubordinate enough. Antagonizing Coulson was hard; it was really difficult to get a rise out of him. And-- she _liked_ him. She knew he might be the mole, but she still didn’t like to deliberately lash out at him. Tease, sure. Attack? No.

But her _feelings_ had never been particularly relevant on a job.

A week was a nice chunk of time for hunting the mole, but she would need access to S.H.I.E.L.D. resources. She needed to put some distance between her and Frankfurt before she broke in anywhere. She found a computer and checked train tickets to Paris. That base was large--

Her phone rang again— another strange number. “Hello.”

“Agent Romanoff,” Fury snarled. “I don't know how you talked Coulson into letting you go, but get your ass back to the Helicarrier, right now, or you can consider your relationship with S.H.I.E.L.D. at an _unfriendly_ end.”

She smiled. “Of course, Director. Are there commercial flights to the Helicarrier now?”

“We’ll send someone for you to Munich.” He hung up. It was impressive how he managed to give the impression of slamming a cordless phone.

So she headed to Munich, and bought a clean, unused tablet along the way. When she got to the airport, a short, stubby jet was waiting on the far end of the tarmac, with a pilot she didn't recognize. As soon as she was inside and strapped in, they took off. It was a long flight to the Helicarrier; when they got there, she was ordered to report to the bridge immediately.

She found Fury on the bridge, coattails swirling, giving a flurry of directions. He turned, saw her, and glared. “Agent Romanoff. Would you like to explain the wild goose chase you were on when I ordered you back?” 

“Would _you_ like to explain how my target had information that only S.H.I.E.L.D. should have known, and used it to ambush me?” she retorted. “ _Sir_ ,” she added, belatedly enough for it to become an insult. That wasn’t a word she used anyway, and anyone familiar with her would know that.

Fury’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like your attitude, Agent Romanoff.”

“And I don’t like being tied up and tortured for hours.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared back.

“You’re good, but you’re not good enough for me to take your lip. You’re insubordinate, Agent. You’re on inventory duty until further notice.”

“Better not say that too loudly, sir, someone might ambush me in the janitor’s closet.” She wasn’t making any effort to speak up, but the bridge had fallen dead silent, and her voice carried. Someone behind her snickered.

That didn’t improve Fury’s mood. “Get out of my sight before I kick you off this ship, _Agent_.”

“With _pleasure._ Sir.” She tossed him a mock salute, deliberately sloppy, and turned on her heel. She reported to the agent-on-deck, and received her temporary quarters, a new earpiece, a tablet with an inventory checklist seventy pages long, and a smirk. Word traveled fast, apparently. _Good_.

She needed an excuse to go around the ship, so she started at the very top of the list. The units were in alphabetical order. Project A.B.A.T.T.O.I.R. had exactly three things to inventory: a large nitrogen-cooled saw, restraints capable of holding psychotic battle robots, and a coffee maker. She considered adding a fourth line item for “sick sense of humor, a,” but it wasn’t like she had room to talk. 

In the automotive department, she holed up in a closet with her tablet. The flash drive was encrypted, of course. But Fury wouldn’t have made it impossible to decrypt with little equipment: she must know the password. What would he have used? Nothing that could be found in her file. They’d had exactly four conversations; Coulson had been present for the first two, the entire bridge crew for the last one, and the fourth had been over possibly-bugged phones. She replayed their conversation in Frankfurt in her head. _I am not an amateur_ , she typed.

The drive opened up. She smiled.

There were copies of logs from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s communications servers, with every suspicious transmission marked. The first one was in January of 2006. So that was why Fury trusted her-- but a leak that had gone on for fifteen months?

Because the mole had been judicious, she realized as she kept reading, or else was very good at being undetected. Maybe this list was only the leaks they’d _wanted_ to be found, in which case this whole thing would lead her to the wrong person. She didn’t see anything that would clear Clint— or anyone else.

She looked more closely at the contents of the transmissions: tech designs, and files on people and missions. Only high-level personnel should have access to them, but _should_ didn’t mean much. 

She looked at the most recent entries. There were more of them in the later dates— the mole had gotten bolder, or Fury had been more suspicious. One transmission that contained the plans of the S.H.I.E.L.D. base in Zurich, and a couple of still-encrypted transmissions from the last three days. Were some of those about her? Fury had said the mole was going after her specifically. Why? Someone she knew? Someone who thought she was particularly dangerous? Or did she know something about what was going on but didn’t realize it yet?

Was there a common time pattern to all the suspicious transmissions? They tended to occur during the day shift, but there were enough exceptions to make her question whether she was really seeing a pattern. One of the exceptions jumped out at her: she knew that date. Amsterdam. And S.H.I.E.L.D. had been coordinating a large attack in England at exactly the same—

Amsterdam. Had someone sold them out in Amsterdam? The bomb in the safe, _and_ the trap, _and_ the backup squad of men. She hadn’t thought about it at the time, because she’d been going crazy, or later, because she barely remembered what had happened. Had someone been gunning for her as far back as that?

She needed more data. The more she speculated without it, the more likely she was to become attached to a theory and bias her later impressions. But— Amsterdam— 

She had a hard time believing either Clint or Coulson could have been behind Amsterdam. Clint easily could have let her die there. Coulson could have arranged it so she died on the operating table. Clint had been— she filtered through hazy, terrifying, memories, and plugged them in to what she knew about him now. He’d been genuinely upset, watching her. He wasn’t _that_ good of an actor. And Coulson practically radiated integrity. Which made him so dangerous, but he’d worked hard to get her back up to speed. She didn’t think he’d been faking his anger when he reprimanded her for hiding the headaches. She faked her emotions all the time; she knew the signs.

What if Amsterdam had been a set-up to let them open her head? What if nothing that had happened since then had been real? What if Amsterdam was the one true thing, and nothing _before_ then had been real, either? What if she was still strapped to the Empire’s operating table? What if she was still trapped in the Red Room—

The walls closed in on her. She forced her head down between her knees, though the last thing she wanted to do was take her eyes off her surroundings, and breathed. Just breathed.

_I can never prove that my life is real. I will not live as if it were not. I will not let the Red Room control me with fear any more than I will let them control me with shame. I fought too hard to be free._ She… would _trust_ that this were real. She had faith in it. She had faith that Clint was real. He’d be hard to fake. She didn’t think anyone in the Red Room would have had any idea where to start. An assassin with integrity? Someone who knew how the world worked, wasn’t a fool, had blood on his hands, killed people for a living, and still was… was _trustworthy?_ Hell, _she_ still didn’t understand him. She _knew_ him, but she didn’t understand what gave him the courage to be as honest as he was.

Okay, enough waxing eloquent about the virtues of her partner. They weren't a mutual admiration society. She needed more information. And she needed to strengthen her cover story.

She found the elldee waiting for her when she signed off on automotive, and headed for the mess, so the odd lump in her bag could sit conspicuously on the chair next to her for a while.

“Well, if it isn’t everyone’s favorite wunderkind.”

Nat looked over her shoulder, and made sure the other woman didn't have a knife up her sleeve. “Carter.”

“Shouldn’t you be out terrorizing innocents, or something?”

“Even I need my rest.”

Carter reached past her, none too gently, to grab a dinner roll. “Did you really think mouthing off to Fury was a good career move?”

“Do you really think interrogating me is a wise _life_ move?”

“What are you going to do, kill me?”

“I would never.” Natasha snagged the rawest, bloodiest steak from the pile. That was one thing about S.H.I.E.L.D.— they knew how to feed people, even in large quantities. When was the last time she’d had a decent meal?

That was progress. Remembering that she hadn’t eaten was progress, right?

“Are you all right?”

Natasha nearly dropped her plate. “What?”

“I said, are you all right. I heard you got captured.”

“I’m fine.”

“Barton said—“

“Barton said more than was good for him,” Nat retorted. She was going to _kill him_. “I thought spies were supposed to know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“Barton is a better agent and a better man than you’ll ever be. You stay the fuck away from him if you’re going to mess up his life.”

Nat put adish of macaroni and cheese on her tray with more force than was strictly necessary. “This is an American thing, isn’t it? The ‘if you hurt him I’ll kill you’ speech?”

“I wouldn’t lay a finger on you. Agent Romanoff.” 

Nat gave Carter an unimpressed look, and noted that her face was flushed. Was there some context she was missing here? Clint and Carter, really? She had a hard time picturing Clint and _anyone_. “Glad that's sorted.”

“He saved your life. If you have any sense of justice— which, admittedly, I doubt— you won’t ruin his.”

_What the fuck_. Natasha turned so she could look Carter straight in the eye. Carter took an involuntary half-step back. “If you have a problem with my partnership with Agent Barton, take it up with him, because I don’t care. If you have a problem with my existence, go to hell.” She deliberately turned her back on Carter, and staked out an unoccupied corner where she could sit with her back to the wall. She threw in an occasional glower. It couldn’t hurt her cover story. Then she went to get more information.

She’d timed it well: she was only waiting in the dark about ten minutes before the door opened and the light turned on. The footsteps paused, then resumed. “People who make a habit of sneaking up on me tend not to live long,” Fury said.

She swiveled to face the door, and vacated his chair. “Which is why I made sure you knew I was here.” It had been a gamble, but if there was any place on the Helicarrier that was bug-free, it was here, Fury’s sanctum sanctorum.

He tossed his coat on the couch. So he _did_ take it off sometime. “What do you want?”

“I need the senior personnel files. All of them.”

Fury eyed her-- but if he didn't trust her with them, he should have thought of that before he'd asked her to find the mole. The irony was not lost on her, that Fury wanted _her_ to find the agent with questionable loyalties. “You'll have them.”

“Fine. Thank you.” She turned to go.

“Agent Romanoff, how did you get in here? I specifically designed this place to have no air ducts wider than six inches within ten feet in any direction.”

She smiled at him. “I used the door.”

She went to her temporary room and checked it for bugs and traps. It wasn’t hard; the rooms on the Helicarrier were the size of closets, and they were never empty. This one had probably been vacated only hours before. She took out the tablet and flash drive again for a second look.

When she reached the fifth page, the vent rattled. She had her gun out, unsafetied, and aimed squarely at the center of the grate before it popped off and Clint’s head appeared.

She lowered the gun. “You should not be able to fit in there.”

“The gravity-defying bird-boy,” he grunted, maneuvering out of the duct, “does not obey the laws of physics.” He got his legs free and dropped lightly to the ground. “‘course, that was easier when I was twelve, and a hundred pounds soaking wet.”

She stared. “You really called yourself the gravity-defying bird-boy?”

“ _Moving on_.” He handed her a hard drive.

She swung her feet to the floor so he could sit down, too, and plugged it in. Yes: personnel files, everyone level 4 or above.

Clint pulled a bottle of water and some cookies from his pocket and started to munch.

“Don’t get crumbs in my bed.”

“You’d kick me out of bed for leaving crumbs?”

She gave him a hard stare.

“Sorry.”

“I don’t like sex jokes.” It came out before she thought. She went back to her tablet. But Clint didn’t make some stupid crack like, _with your reputation?_

“Knew that. Sometimes my mouth runs faster than my brain. Sorry.”

“Sometimes?”

He nudged her shin with his foot.

She read for a few minutes. Clint didn’t seem in any hurry to leave; she would have wanted some fresh air before climbing through those vents again, too. Well, “fresh.”

“Did you and Carter used to date?” she asked.

Clint choked. She pounded him on the back probably harder than she needed to. “Sorry, it sounded like you just said—“

“I _did_ say.”

“ _No_. What?”

“She thinks I’m ruining your life.”

“Oh.” Clint digested this. “She doesn’t like you.”

“Thank you for that incisive observation.”

“But last time we talked-- I thought she was kinda getting over it.” He shook his head. “We’ve run a few missions together. But I think it’s more about you than me.”

“I told her to take it up with you if she had a problem with me.”

Clint nodded. “Makes perfect sense.”

She elbowed him.

“Ow.”

“That didn’t hurt.”

“You bruised my tender feelings. I’m crying on the inside.”

“Why did you tell her I was… what did you tell her?”

“What? Oh. She asked how the Wiesbaden mission went. I said, besides being sold out and having to break my partner out of terrorist jail, fine.”

Natasha’s skin prickled. “She knew about the mission?”

“Apparently.”

She turned her head and stared at him.

“Doubt it’s her. She doesn’t have access to what's been leaked.”

“How do you know-- How did _you_ get the list of leaks?”

“I borrowed the Director’s copy.”

“With permission?”

Clint smiled.

“But she wants me dead,” Natasha continued. “Why is she here? And not in Michigan.”

“Don’t know. Didn’t ask. We didn’t talk long.”

“That would be worth finding out.”

“Do you really think it’s her?”

Nat sighed, and thought about that. She didn’t like Carter. More than that, she didn’t like the idea of someone with such a personal hatred for her running around her workplace. But that didn’t mean Carter was the mole. “I just don’t want to get blindsided by my emotions.”

“Well, you have her file,” Clint said after a minute. “Watch your back.”

“I _always_ watch my back.”

“Yeah, I _know_. Still, I’m sayin’, watch your back. I’ve never seen something like this at S.H.I.E.L.D. before.”

“... Fine.”

He reached for the vent.

“You, um… be careful too.”

She heard the ghost of a chuckle— “Yeah—“ and then he pulled the grate shut behind him.

She examined her take. First, she opened Clint’s file, to see if she could figure out why Fury trusted him. She didn't necessarily distrust him herself-- but she wanted to have all the information.

It made for fascinating reading, even if she hadn’t been trying to root out a mole. _I need to get him to tell me these stories_. Or get his mission log. _A_ _cloud seeder?_

Ah. During one of the earliest leaks, Clint had been assigned directly to Fury, as a bodyguard. He must have actually been in Fury’s presence the whole time; she couldn’t see Fury trusting him over anything less.

She moved on. There was no hard proof in any of it. That wasn’t surprising; Fury had access to all of it, too. But she saw patterns, now. The leaks tended to happen during first shift, and they tended to corresponded with a crisis or a large operation. So it was probably someone senior enough to get the first shift, and they were probably working alone. A partner, especially a tech, would have been able to help them randomize the transmission times.

But there was one leak that was telling, the exception to the rule. There’d been a hostage crisis in Kuala Lumpur three months ago, and a leak the next morning— not during the night. Whoever was behind this probably hadn’t been involved with Kuala Lumpur. So, not someone involved with Asian affairs, and also not someone who had gotten sucked in as an extra. Someone who’d been busy with an even more important project at the time?

She made a list based on access to what had been leaked, and non-assignments in Asian affairs. Agent Durbin-- a good theory, because she’d had access to many of the leaked files. But she’d been heavily involved with Kuala Lumpur, and she’d been on sick leave for the last two months because of a bullet in her leg.

Agent Baker— definitely a possibility. H.Y.D.R.A. had been her specialty for a long time, so she could have made the necessary contacts, and she _hadn’t_ been involved with Kuala Lumpur. Agent Simmons— an even better suspect than Baker. He’d worked in cryptography before moving up the ranks. Or what if two, or more, of them were working together? But she _didn’t_ find any reason why any of them would be targeting her specifically. The only person who hated her openly was Carter. But that didn’t mean no one else hated her at all-- just that Carter was brave, or stupid.

She kept going. Agent Robinson— would be nearly perfect. He was so highly placed as Fury’s Number Two that very few people who weren’t Fury were in a position to question him. But he’d actually been on the ground in Kuala Lumpur. She needed to pull the reports from those missions, find out who’d been with him, and interview them. Subtly. And the timing— what had been going on in Kuala Lumpur at eight am S.H.I.E.L.D. time of the next day? She knew from experience that just because the shots stopped didn’t mean the mission was over. There would’ve been a massive coordination effort with the local police, the media— _against_ the media— and Robinson had probably been the one running it.

Agent Chang— not highly enough placed to have _official_ access to all the leaked material they’d discovered so far, but had also worked in crypto, and was now assigned to Manhattan. Did he and Simmons know each other?

Agent Broad— not as likely as some of the other possibilities, but specialized in Russian affairs, which might give him a reason to go after her specifically. Had she fucked up one of his cases? She couldn’t even remember all her kills. Come to think of it, it was a bit odd that she’d never met him, considering her background, and the Vladivostok job. Was he avoiding her?

Agent Asgari— had just been coming off of two weeks in the field when Kuala Lumpur had happened, and had been left behind when the rest of his unit had scrambled to respond. He’d come from engineering, so he might have known how to access some of the plans that were leaked.

And Agent Coulson. She opened the file, because of course she was going to be thorough. She was going to be very thorough. She started at the beginning and read carefully.

Born in Massachusetts. Father a Methodist minister, mother a music teacher. One older brother, Steven, died when he was ten. Went to college at sixteen, majored in political science and— _anthropology_?— graduated _magna cum laude_ , joined the—

She blinked, and checked the name on top of the file, to make sure she hadn’t somehow switched pages in the middle. No, Phillip James Coulson, DOB 7-8-64 had joined the Peace Corps after college. She vaguely knew that was an organization for earnest do-gooders who wanted to _see the world!_ You saw the world a lot as an assassin, too, but it probably wasn’t the same.

Coulson had been sent to Kenya for two years. After that, he’d joined the Army and become a Ranger— quite a switch from the Peace Corps— and, after a couple of years, had quit after—

She checked the file name again. No, still Coulson. He’d left the Rangers after punching his superior officer.

He’d joined the C.I.A. next, and been liaison to MI-6 for a while, before being recalled and reprimanded for “exceeding his mission mandate.” Finally, in his early thirties, he’d joined S.H.I.E.L.D., at the request of Nick Fury. He’d worked in multiple departments before apparently finding his calling as a handler, and had moved up the ranks since then. But slowly. He hadn’t had a promotion in… four years, and his security clearance was way higher than suited his actual rank. Interesting.

She looked at a performance review from early in his tenure with S.H.I.E.L.D. _Agent Coulson is rather quiet and retiring. This may impact his field effectiveness_. On the scan of the paper copy, someone had added in red ink: _Agent Ziharie is an imbecile who couldn’t find her nose in the dark_. _Review withdrawn from consideration. NF._ She snorted.

She looked at his recent case history. He'd been heavily involved with the Kuala Lumpur mission, and she'd been with him for at least two leaks. After missions had officially concluded, but before they'd returned to base. That information wouldn't have been in any files. Was that why Fury hadn't eliminated Coulson as a suspect?

Her eyes were burning, and she needed to let her subconscious take over. She tucked the tablet under her pillow and went to sleep.

*

She woke up early and snuck back into Fury’s office. He wasn’t there, which was inconvenient, but at least he wasn’t there sleeping. He hadn’t gotten to the position he now held by shooting anyone who woke him, but she wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive her for getting the drop on him.

She waited. If someone noticed she wasn’t doing inventory, they’d either assume she was insubordinate, or assume she was hunting doombots, if that rumor was spreading already. 

It took a while for Fury to show up. Again, he paused before flipping the lights on. “Subtle.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t move from her corner. She hadn’t moved anything in his office this time. Instead she’d stolen some cologne from an unattended locker, and left a splash of it on the doorframe.

“What is it?”

“I need everything about Kuala Lumpur. And the detailed mission logs for some agents.” She rattled off their names.

“What have you found?”

She told him, and finished with, “And I want the complete computer logs about Agent Broad. His movements, his computer activity. Whatever we have.”

“You think it’s him?”

“He specialized in Russian affairs. He’s been in the right place at all the right times to make the leaks.”

Fury sighed. For once, he looked his age— whatever that was. “I like Broad. He’s a good agent. Thinks quick on his feet.”

She waited. She had too much respect for Fury to assume he would derail her investigation over sentiment.

“All right. I’ll get it to you by the end of the day.”

“Thank you.” She straightened up from her crouch, and left.

When her shift was over, she still didn't have the files. She lingered in the mess, forgoing a table by the wall in favor of one where she could see anyone coming and going in the hall outside.

Someone sat down across from her. “How is your _exciting_ job as a girl Friday for inventory?”

“For someone who hates me and wants me dead, you spend a lot of time talking to me.”

Carter’s cheeks were pink, though they’d already been pink when she sat down. “I’m trying to delight in your misfortunes.”

Nat snorted. “If you think being assigned inventory duty is a misfortune, you’ve led a sheltered life.”

Carter went red— with anger. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Mmm.” Nat took another sip of her coffee, and made sure she wasn’t demonstrating anything like interest. If Carter had had her files, she would have handed them over already. “Do you mind? I’m waiting for someone.”

Carter raised her eyebrows.

“I met someone in engineering and I’m hoping to take him back to my room and fuck him.” She shrugged. “The beds are a bit narrow, but we’ll make it work.”

Carter stood up fast. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of taking his spot. Be sure to clean up his bones when you’re done with him.”

“Yes. They’ll make great soup.”

Carter walked off, looking disgusted. Nat resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. That was one good thing about her reputation, apparently— Clint never would have gotten away with a story like that.

Well, maybe he would have. People would be kind of reluctant to pry into his personal life.

Finally another flash drive arrived, beneath a fresh cup of coffee that one of the cafeteria staff kindly brought her. She went back to her room, and read through the case file on Kuala Lumpur first. It was marked as incomplete— _still?_ — ah. Still waiting for some reports from Intel, some lab results from Forensics. It gave her a new appreciation for the scope of what the handlers had to manage. No wonder Coulson always nagged them to get their mission reports in early.

It couldn’t have been Agent Robinson. He’d been with at least half a dozen agents the whole time, and had only left the temporary headquarters to lead a strike team. No wonder Fury liked him; he didn’t do things by halves. At the time of the transmission, late at night local time, he’d still been cleaning up, checking in with Medical, reassuring the local police, dispatching floater agents to follow up on the leads they’d found when they freed the hostages and captured their kidnappers, and doing about ten other things at once.

Next: Agent Broad’s mission logs and case files. Her eyebrows rose as she read. She knew, objectively, that her memory of the Red Room was riddled with holes; doubly so now that most of the fake memories had dissolved, after Amsterdam. So if she remembered personally killing two Russian politicians he’d been trying to negotiate with, she’d probably killed at least two more that she didn’t remember. He had plenty of reason to hate her.

And she should have met him. He was in Manhattan now, but he’d been posted to Missouri for the first two months of her time with S.H.I.E.L.D., and she’d never even _seen_ him. He’d put in a preliminary report on the Vladivostok case and then declined to consult, pleading an overloaded case file. Which was true, he _had_ been juggling an unusual number of missions at the time. One of which had eventually taken an agent to the American consulate in Frankfurt, only a few weeks before she and Clint had arrived.

She looked at the rest of the drive’s contents. Simmons and Chang had only overlapped in Crypto for about four months, when Simmons had been a senior agent and Chang had been a new recruit. They’d been assigned to separate bases for most of that time; Simmons had been stationed in Dubai. A possible connection, but not a strong one.

She pulled up Broad's access history for the last eighteen months. It was going to take her days to find a needle in all this hay. She opened the list of original leaks and started cross-referencing. 

_This doesn’t make any sense._ Broad had swiped into a communications room before _every single leak_. But there was no record of him accessing any of the equipment once he was inside. Had an accomplice let him in? But then he wouldn’t have needed to swipe in. Was he threatening somebody inside, blackmailing or threatening one of the techs to get them to send out his message? That would be stupid. _Never make a long-term plan that depends on the cooperation of someone you’re forcing to hate you._

She frowned. She needed to let her subconscious work on it. There was _something_ she was missing. There was also something she'd neglected to do. She went back to the first flash drive and pulled up Carter's file.

Born in California; a year or two older than Natasha. Parents had died in a shipwreck when she was thirteen, after which she'd been raised by her grandmother. She'd gone to college at sixteen, studied international relations and pre-med, graduated at nineteen, and joined S.H.I.E.L.D. right out of college. She'd been posted to--

An alarm went off. The emergency lights flashed. “Prepare for ascent,” Robinson said over the intercom. “Ascent in two minutes and counting.”

Her earpiece beeped. “Agent Romanoff. Report to briefing room A19.” 

She touched her ear. “On my way.”

Room A19 was close enough to the bridge that she could see the flurry of activity inside as the engines fired. The large briefing room was already three-quarters full, of suits, soldiers, and floaters like her. This had to be all the unattached agents on the ship. Carter was near the front, bending her head to listen to a tall redheaded man.

Fury strode in with even more speed than usual, and everyone shut up. He scowled when the screen took a minute to light up. “H.Y.D.R.A. is moving in Munich. They’re mobilizing more people than we knew they _had_. This is the second major attack on a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility in the region in the last two weeks. We’re going to stop them, and we’re going to wipe them out.”

He laid out a detailed plan of attack. When he was done, the redheaded man raised his hand. “Agent Garrett,” Fury said.

“How do we know all these people are H.Y.D.R.A? Could they be working with someone else?”

Fury nodded. “You’re right. We don’t. We’re monitoring their comm chatter, but we should expect to have the same communications problems we had in Zurich, so that may not tell us anything. So if you have some idea in your head of what it’s like to fight H.Y.D.R.A., lose it, now. It could get you killed.” He looked around the room, then continued. “We’re getting preliminary reports that H.Y.D.R.A. has some new bioweapon.”

A soft murmur ran through the assembled agents.

“It doesn’t appear to be aerosolized, and it’s not immediately fatal, but it’s debilitating. We’ll update you as we know more. Your unit leaders will give you the more detailed plan. Agents, over to you.”

Most of the other floaters had been assigned to a unit, but she hadn’t. She listened carefully to all the unit plans. She needed to talk to Fury— if she died, _someone_ needed to know what she’d discovered.

When the briefing leaders took questions, she snaked through the crowd until she reached him. “Agent Romanoff,” he said. “Barton is already on his way down. You’ll meet him on the ground.” He looked around to make sure no one was within earshot. She raised an eyebrow.

“The two of you are to get close to H.Y.D.R.A. I want whatever intel you can get-- overheard conversations, captured prisoners, captured supplies, anything. This blindsided us and it shouldn't have. We need answers.” His grim expression made even her glad she wasn't a H.Y.D.R.A. agent. “Then I want you to fuck shit up.”

She raised her other eyebrow, then smiled. “Yes, sir.” For once, it wasn't sarcastic. “Before I go. I found something.” She told him about Agent Broad.

His eyes narrowed. He nodded once. “I’m going to need your equipment, Agent Romanoff. This supersedes your previous assignment.” The slight change in his tone was the only clue that he was speaking for an audience, now.

She swung her bag off her back and handed it to him, letting the top unzip a bit so the elldee could stick out. “It’s all there in working order.” Translation: every clean piece of data I have is in that bag, so don’t let anyone touch it.

“Thank you, Agent Romanoff. You’ll ride along with Tango Squad. The pilot will drop you off after they make their drop.”

“Yes.” She gave him a nod and turned to go. Several paces behind her, far enough to be politely out of earshot— probably— Agent Robinson was waiting. He was staring at the bag in Fury’s hands, but when she moved, he gave her a curious look.

She had just enough time to change into a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform and restock her weapons. Then she turned her earpiece to the correct channel… and made sure her burner phone was tucked in a pocket. As far as she knew, it hadn’t been compromised.

The pilot dropped Tango Squad on a street a hundred meters back from an intense firefight. In the brief glimpse she got, she saw a lot of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents down. The plane that had loaded next to them had been full of medics. She hoped they had somewhere safe to work. They were going to need it.

Then it was a climb and a stomach-lurching fast drop from the clouds onto the grounds of the Munich base. Gunfire flashed back and forth outside the walls. Inside, part of the building had been hit by what looked like mortar fire. She pitied whoever was running interference with the German government.

The pilot didn’t even land, just hovered off the ground and lowered the ramp. She slid to the end, jumped, rolled, came up, and got out of the backwash from the engines. The pilot jumped towards the clouds again, soaring at a rate that must have had him seeing black spots, and narrowly cleared a rocket blast from outside the walls.

S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers were crouched around the inside of the walls, returning fire. There was an armored truck parked in one corner of the courtyard, and a helicopter in the middle. More soldiers were loading a man on a stretcher into the helicopter. She didn't see Clint--

“INCOMING!”

She dove for cover under the truck and braced herself— for an explosion which never came. There was a light _patter_ of something tiny hitting the stones. She looked out and held her breath, but there was no gas, either. Near the walls, someone moaned, loudly.

“Get him inside!”

She scrambled out from under the truck and looked around. Lying on the ground were what looked like darts. 

One of the soldiers saw her looking. “Don’t touch them.”

_Got that, thanks._ “Give him to me, I’ll get him inside.” 

One of the man’s comrades was bent over him and had his sleeve rolled up. She gave a quick tug, and the man shouted. “Out. It’s out.”

Nat looked past her. The man’s arm, where he’d been hit, had turned a bright, deep blue. “What—“

The woman glanced up. Her face was bloodied. “You must be new. H.Y.D.R.A. has been sending these toys at us for hours.”

“Is it lethal?”

“Sometimes. Here.” She helped him up. He could still walk. Nat put his undamaged arm over her shoulder, and together, she and the other soldier got him to the door, and through the heavily-guarded checkpoint.

Inside, wounded were lying along the main hallway, some of them with visible blue patches of skin. They laid the injured man down in an unoccupied space. The other soldier went for help.

She turned down another corridor and smelled burning flesh. _No, not here—_ But it wasn’t a flashback, or a hallucination. One soldier was bent over another, applying a lighter to her skin. The woman was hissing and writhing in pain.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Nat demanded.

The man with the lighter barely looked up. “Heat destroys the toxin. She’ll get sick and die, otherwise.”

Nat watched, suspiciously. Slowly, the skin he was— heating— turned a lighter blue, under the pink of the burn. “Don’t you have—“

“We’re short on equipment. Ran out of chemical heaters half an hour ago.”

“Where's the medic? I’ve got another one out there.”

“They’re busy with the worst cases. We didn’t figure out to get the darts out and destroy the toxin until… too late, for some. My advice, if you want him to live, get a lighter.”

“Yeah… thanks.” She kept going. 

“Well, look who the cat brought in.”

She whirled as Clint came out of a cross-corridor. “What’s the situation?”

“Just checked the south and west sides, they're holding for now. We should be able to get out that way. Coulson's here, handling evac and the medics.”

“Good.”

“As long as we're going out, we should see if we can cover anyone's exit first. The artillery is a pain in the ass.” He shouldered his quiver. “Shall we, Agent Romanoff?”

“Blow things up? Yes, I think we shall.”

The agent in charge gratefully accepted their offer to cover a medical truck. They stopped on the way out for body armor. “This helmet is ridiculous.” It cut down her field of vision.

“Better than a H.Y.D.R.A. dart.”

She couldn’t deny that. But she still _wanted_ to complain.

They went up first, and played “spot the enemy sniper.” Then Clint played “kill all the enemy snipers.” That gave them a little breathing room to crawl further out onto the roof and look for the artillery. They just needed to buy the truck about two minutes. S.H.I.E.L.D. was trying to shoot down the guns, too, but they weren't having much luck.

Clint found it first— of course— and swore softly. “That's a lot of H.Y.D.R.A.”

She followed his pointing finger. “Looks like it.”

“We’re fucked.”

“Come on, Barton, where’s that sunny and cheerful spirit I know?”

Another finger joined the first one, and turned vertical. “No, I mean, we _were_ fucked. There’s no way H.Y.D.R.A. could have gotten the drop on us like this without someone in S.H.I.E.L.D. helping them. Never in a million years.”

She shrugged. “We knew that already. No use crying over spilt loyalties.”

“You’re right, let’s make other people cry. Cover me?”

She crouched beside him, watching their surroundings as he stretched out on his stomach, an arrow nocked on the string. He took a long time to line up the shot. She leaned over his torso to shoot a H.Y.D.R.A. agent who was leaning a little too far out of cover. 

“I hate war.” This qualified. She preferred sneaking, and stealing someone else’s identity, and turning the brains of her targets inside out. “They’re bunching up behind that building over there.”

He acknowledged her with a grunt, but didn’t turn to look. She shot another woman who was looking up at the sky, trying to find them. Finally he exhaled and released the string. She couldn’t even follow the arrow with her eyes as it flew over the roof of the next building. But she saw the explosion. “Did you hit it?”

“Don’t know. Couldn’t actually see the gun, just followed the arc of the shells. We can wait five minutes and find out.”

“Let’s shoot more things while we wait.”

“Good idea. Where were they bunching?”

She pointed. He stared where she was pointing. “Huh. Yeah. They got some kinda… Looks like—“

He trailed off.

“— like some kind of digging machine.”

_Oh fuck_. “Can you blow it up?”

“I can try.” 

“Hey, did you bring extra—“

“Several quivers’ worth, don’t worry.” He tapped his bow, nocked an arrow, sighted, and fired. The explosion blew out the remaining windows of the building.

She ducked flying debris. “Did it—“ 

“Took them out, but it’s armored.” He sounded grim. “ _Down_!”

She heard a _hiss_ and threw herself down, covering all her exposed skin. Needles rained down around her. As soon as they stopped she popped up and shot the sniper on the roof with a wild shot. But there were three more coming up behind him, and three on an adjacent roof— “We gotta—“

“Yeah.” Clint was already scrambling for the roof hatch. The truck should be reasonably protected from the darts, and it would take H.Y.D.R.A. more than two minutes to get more artillery into place. They made it through and slammed it shut just as another rain of needles tinkled against the metal. “Turn around.”

“What?” But she did as he said.

“You have a—“ She felt pressure against her back, and looked over her shoulder to see Clint pluck a needle out of her shirt. He pulled her shirt up, then tugged at her armor and checked the skin underneath. “No. You’re good. It stuck in the armor.”

“You? Turn around.”

He swiveled, obediently, and she made sure he hadn’t gotten stuck, either. They ran for the lower levels; they needed to go before H.Y.D.R.A. got more artillery in place.

They got clear of the base. She covered him as he climbed to a nearby rooftop; then he covered her as she advanced through the streets. The base was between them and most of the H.Y.D.R.A. activity; the only danger to them-- at the moment-- came from stray rockets. They rounded the corner of the base; he leapt across to the next roof, exposed for a moment, and then was in a position to see a long way.

He could see farther than anyone H.Y.D.R.A. had, so he could stay out of sight and talk her through the paths of least resistance. 'Fuck shit up' didn't mean 'engage the enemy in a head-on suicide run.' She lost comm contact with Clint for about five minutes as she crawled through the filthy sub-basement of an abandoned building; she came up behind a H.Y.D.R.A. sentry post, and killed them all, quietly, before they knew what hit them.

“Where's the nearest artillery?” she asked, when the connection was back.

“Did you want me to leave you some? Sorry.”

She listened: yes, the rockets had stopped. It was about time-- the world wasn't a nice place, but terrorists shelling any major metropolitan area was an appalling prospect. “Do you see a spot where we can bottleneck them?”

“They're pretty spread out. And they know we're here.”

“What?” The mole--

“They know _someone's_ here.” She heard a _thud_ as he jumped to the next roof. “Not surprising, with what we've racked up.”

“Then I'll play bait--”

Rifle fire exploded over the comms, multiple guns. Clint gasped, then grunted in pain. “Hawkeye!” She sprinted forward, grabbed the side of a building, hauled herself up, climbed in through the fire escape, sprinted down the hall, killed the H.Y.D.R.A. outpost inside, and came out on the roof. She didn't see him-- but he'd just been there, and _there_ was taking fire from snipers in multiple buildings.

She wasn't Clint Barton, but she was still a crack shot. Taking out a sniper with a rifle and body armor, from an adjacent building, using a pistol, was just at the edge of her abilities. She killed two of them before she had to flatten herself behind a water tank to avoid return fire from the others.

“Here,” Clint grunted. She heard pounding footsteps-- he was on the stairs. She heard a familiar _swish_ , a scream, and a thud-- a H.Y.D.R.A. sniper falling out of his perch. 

She heard footsteps on the stairs below her-- they were deep into H.Y.D.R.A. territory now, and it hadn't taken a reinforcing squad long to get to the building. She could fight her way through, or she could run. She could probably take them-- but the longer she and Clint were split up and distracted, the more likely they were to get hit. She turned, ran straight for the edge of the roof, and made the leap to the next building over. She stumbled on the edge, and fell into a roll, shedding momentum. She needed to get under cover and find Clint-- he'd been heading down--

Gunfire-- the ones behind her had made it to the roof she'd just left-- the cover on this roof was terrible-- 

She felt the shockwave of the explosion rush over her, and when she looked, her pursuers were dead. An arrow was sticking out of the tattered remains of the roof. “Thanks, Hawkeye.”

“Welcome. We need to find cover and regroup.” He sounded breathless. “On my way down, at your three.”

Getting half of H.Y.D.R.A. to pursue them across the city counted as fucking shit up, right?

She swung over the edge of the building and, painfully, climbed down to street level. She flattened herself inside a recessed doorway and held her fire as a H.Y.D.R.A. squad thundered by at the end of the alley. The area fell silent, for a moment, and she listened. Still no rocket fire-- and the most constant gunfire sounded farther away. Was S.H.I.E.L.D. pushing H.Y.D.R.A. back?

A heavy _thud_ to her right-- Clint dropped from the second story, and landed heavily. He was pale. She checked him quickly for signs of blood loss, but his uniform was black like hers. “There's an empty apartment a few blocks from here. We can go to ground, they won't be looking there. Come on.”

They snuck through the streets, dodging H.Y.D.R.A. patrols. Leaving a trail of arrow-ridden corpses to their destination would be stupid-- but Clint could make shots over a long, long distance. But he wasn't taking those shots. And she was good with a throwing knife, but not _that_ good. Their guns would be too noisy, so they became ghosts, and didn't engage.

He kept up with her, so it took her a few minutes to notice that he was stumbling as he ran, twisting and trying to reach his arm. He must have gotten shot. But if he was on his feet, it couldn’t be that bad… could it? 

“Here,” he gasped, and tilted his head towards a building ahead, untouched by the fighting. “A S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house?”

He shook his head. “But it's safe.”

She didn't ask any more. He drew his gun-- his gun?-- and covered her as she picked the lock on the front door, then pushed the door open.

_Three two seven_ , he mouthed, and silently closed the door behind them. They slipped through the halls, dusty and musty, to the stairs at the far end. If anyone lived here, they were staying silent and keeping their heads down-- which was a good idea.

They reached 327. She listened at the door. It was completely silent. She picked this lock, too, then opened the door. 

The small, bare apartment was covered in a thick layer of dust. She checked the open area, the musty bedroom, and the little bathroom. There were signs of previous inhabitants-- some musty linens, a half-empty bottle of vodka-- but no one had been here in a long time. She looked over her shoulder, expecting that Clint would be checking the sight lines--

– in time to see him stumble and slide down the wall.

She darted across the room, grabbed him, and helped him sit down rather than fall down. Her hand didn’t come away bloody, and she didn’t see blood on his hands or his clothes. He stripped off his uniform shirt, and she saw the patch of deep blue along the outside of his right bicep. _Fuck_.

“Can’t reach it,” he groaned. “You’re gonna have to—“ He felt in his pockets with his good hand, and handed her a lighter.

Her fingers closed around it automatically, but her mind was two paces behind. She was very, very good at inflicting pain on people. But the thought of doing it to Clint made her feel—

_Grow up, Romanoff. You have no choice_.

She tugged at his arm, stretching it out so she could get a better look, and saw— “There’s still something in there.” It wasn’t much bigger than a bee sting, but she was willing to bet it was full of toxin.

“Fuck. Pulled it out at an angle as we were running, must have broken off the tip.”

She splashed vodka over her sharpest knife, flicked the lighter on, and held the tip in the flame. She waited for the alcohol to evaporate.

“Here.” Clint handed her his pocket flashlight.

She shone it on the wound. When the knife was cool, she stuck the tip in next to the fragment, and levered it out. Clint gasped and shuddered. She tore a strip off his shirt, picked up the bloody piece of dart, and put it safely aside. She tore another strip and held it to the wound, but Clint shook his head. “Just do it.” His voice was guttural and ragged.

_Is this punishment for all the people I’ve tortured? That now I have to torture my—_

She handed him the empty sheath to bite down on. Then she flicked the lighter on and applied the flame to the bluest part of his skin. He was rigid, but he didn’t make a sound. She didn’t think he was even breathing. The blue faded and retreated, leaving a bulls-eye of blue around a patch of mostly-normal skin. She held the lighter on until the venom was no longer visible. Then she wet the cleanest-looking patch of bed linen in the sink, and held it to the burn.

He’d taken the sheath out of his mouth. His chest was heaving, but he was still dead silent. Sweat was running down his forehead… and his hands were shaking. Being burned was painful, but she was familiar with his pain tolerance. She was familiar with his reactions to pain, and they usually weren't this.

It could have been the toxin, but she felt a calculated desire to inflict a lot of pain on whoever had given him that marked antipathy to burns and fire. But they were probably already dead. That took away her most effective response; her skill set was hurting people and manipulating them, not nursing them. Well, she could assess the problem: Clint was sweating. She wet another piece of cloth, and wiped his face. 

“There you go with the brow-mopping again, Romanoff,” he said weakly.

Under _no_ other circumstances would she have let him get away with a crack like that, but-- she continued her assessment. He was shaking: she felt in his side pocket until she found the candy bar, opened the wrapper with her teeth, and handed it to him.

His hand closed around it. “I’m _fine_.”

She passed him the vodka. “You’re not fine. And it doesn’t matter.”

He took a long swallow. The look he gave her had an edge, but not enough to be a glare. She rinsed the blood and the heat out of the rags. When she squatted by his side again, the wound was still pink, not turning back to blue. She’d gotten most of the venom.

“What is this place?”

He chewed, and swallowed. “Coulson and I holed up here years ago. He said it would always be empty. That's all I know.”

“Huh.” If Coulson was connected with the place, there were at least even odds-- She searched the apartment more thoroughly, and found a med kit and a few MREs taped to the bottom of the bed. She carried the kit to the other room and popped it open. Gauze, painkillers, antiseptic... burn cream. Good.

He gave back the sheath. “Sorry about the teeth marks.”

“It’s seen worse.” She wiped down her knife with more vodka. When it dried, she resheathed it and strapped it back around her ankle.

Clint hissed softly as he smeared burn cream over the burn. Then he stuck on a bandage, and wiped his fingers on his pants. He leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed. He looked old and tired.

She watched him for a moment, then two. Then she nudged his shoulder, and leaned against the corner, so her shoulder was exposed. He turned and looked her in the face; then, with an exhale that sounded like defeat, leaned back against her shoulder.

“Christ, Clint. You watched me lose my mind in Amsterdam. I’m not going to think less of you for getting a little shaky over my barbaric battlefield medicine.”

“Like either of us think that’s what this is about.”

“I was trying to be tactful.”

“You need practice.”

“Yeah, usually I show sympathy by killing people.” If at all.

He huffed softly. “You’re tense.” But he didn’t move.

She appreciated that, that he didn’t try to take the choice from her. This was different than having one of them stricken with fever or drugs; it seemed like more. But it was her choice. “I can’t get away from what I was made into any easier than you can.”

“Point taken,” he sighed after a moment. “How ‘bout this, we find whoever made these damned darts, you can help me put them in a world of hurt.”

“Did you have to ask?”

“Okay,” he said after another minute. “I’m not gonna keel over— thanks, by the way—“

The knock came at the same moment his phone buzzed. She whirled and aimed at the door-- who would _knock_ \--

He checked it one-handed, gun in his other. “It's... Coulson. Wants to know if we're here.”

They looked at each other.

_It's a trap._ Why would Coulson be there? “Did he use any of the alarm words?”

Clint shook his head.

Would their mole know the alarm words? Or be smart enough to know they existed? Almost certainly. She could slip out the window, get to the other side of the building, and come up behind him--

Something _thunk_ ed against the door. Clint pushed past her. She bit back a reproach about how he trusted too easily, and covered him as he opened the door.

It was Coulson, alone. “We got the.” He pitched face-first towards the ground.

“ _Coulson!_ ” Clint grabbed him before he could fall on his face, and eased him down. “Coulson. Hey, boss.” Clint turned Coulson over and tried to get a response. “Phil?” Clint looked up at her. “He’s burning up. He must've got hit with a dart. We gotta find it and make sure it’s out.”

She locked the door behind them. Clint unbuttoned Coulson’s jacket and pulled his tie out of the way to get to the buttons of his shirt. Natasha undid his belt and unzipped his pants, pulling them down over his hips… then stopped, staring at the red, white, blue, and silver fabric underneath. “… Oh, my God.”

Clint made a choked noise. “Let’s… just… k-keep looking.” 

She tore her gaze away from Coulson’s boxers and hoped the dart wasn't under them. But if they had to check Coulson’s ass for a dart, then they had to check Coulson’s ass for a dart. She started at his ankles and looked for spots of blue, but found nothing.

Clint tugged Coulson’s undershirt off, and rolled him onto his side. “Here.” Coulson’s lower back was covered with a large band of blue, and peppered with tiny scratch marks. “He must not have felt it with the shrapnel.”

The blue mark was larger than both her hands put together. “If we try to burn out that much toxin—“

“I know.” Clint sounded grim. “It’s still in there. Getting it out will be a start.” He reached for the medkit; she handed over the same knife she’d used on his, because his eyes were better than hers. “See if you can get some hot water out of the tap.”

Even if they destroyed enough of the toxin to keep him alive, they needed to get him out of there. She tapped her earpiece as she knelt by the tub, and listened to the chatter for a minute. If the mole had complete control of the comms, would she be able to tell? And could they get evac for Coulson without getting any of them killed?

“Central, this is Delta Two,” she said. “We need immediate evac for Delta Prime.” The water turned warm. She turned it off to save whatever heat it would produce.

“Delta Two, what's your location?”

She hesitated. “I'm not broadcasting it on an open channel.”

“Delta Two, this is a S.H.I.E.L.D. secure channel!”

“Yes. I know.”

“We don't have time for games,” Central snapped. “People are waiting for med evac ahead of you. Unless you want to come out of your hidey-hole and clear some H.Y.D.R.A. nests, it'll have to wait.”

She narrowed her eyes, and released her earpiece. A new voice came over the line, unfamiliar, male, amused. “If Delta One and Two are who I think they are, they could eat this whole operation for breakfast.”

“Cut the chatter, Peregrine Five,” Central snapped.

In the other room, Clint was wiping her knife. “You get it?”

“Yeah.” He hoisted Coulson up. “Come on, boss, let’s get some heat on that.”

She balanced Coulson from his other side; he was barely conscious, and definitely not coherent.

“What’d Central say?”

She shook her head. Clint’s expression flattened. She looked at Coulson’s back— part of it was pink and shiny, now, but the blue patch was still very large. Coulson shouldn’t have been able to make it this far. He must have been running on instinct to get to a place he remembered. But that was Coulson— doing the impossible, so quietly and efficiently that most people didn’t even realize it was impossible.

Clint got Coulson into the bathroom, but then Coulson started to fight him. “Coulson. Phil. It’s me, it’s Clint.” Clint steadied him. “You’ve been hit with a H.Y.D.R.A. dart, we have to break down the toxins.” He got Coulson to lean against his shoulder. “You'll be fine, we'll get you out, but you gotta work with us.” He turned Coulson around so he was facing the tub. “Sorry. You have to lose the boxers, or they’ll chafe.”

She averted her eyes as Clint helped Coulson out of his boxers, out of respect as well as because she didn’t need to see her boss’s ass. She’d had enough of that in previous jobs.

It was hard, to see Coulson not only incapable of taking care of everyone around him, but incapable of taking care of himself. Probably it was worse for Clint, who knew Coulson better. But that was illogical; forgetting that everyone was vulnerable was a good way to get killed.

Clint turned the tap on. She went to the window and checked the sight lines. Her earpiece beeped. “Delta Two, this is Peregrine Five, do you copy?”

She touched her ear. “This is Two, I copy.”

“This is a secure channel. My squad is on the west side; if you're anywhere near there, we can offer you escort.”

She hesitated. “Are you dug in?”

“Yeah.”

“We may take you up on that, but can't yet. The situation is... unstable.”

“Understood.” His voice became grim. “Delta Prime is a good man. He's saved me more than once. If he needs us, we'll be there.”

“I copy, Five.”

She turned around. Clint had gotten Coulson out of the tub and back into his clothes, wrapped him in a dusty sheet, and gotten him into the bed. Now Clint was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Coulson and frowning deeply. Coulson was shivering. Clint put the back of his hand to Coulson’s forehead, and grimaced.

Watching Clint watch Coulson with deep lines of worry on his face, she had a moment where it felt like she had Clint’s perception instead of her own. “You… _love_ him, don’t you.”

Clint looked up like she’d accused him of eating old ladies. “What? _No_.”

“I didn’t say you wanted in his pants, I said you _love_ him.”

“No,” he insisted, with slightly less vehemence.

She was confused. Love wasn’t something she’d ever crossed paths with, except as a motivating factor for the people she was sent to kill. Clint was one of the most practical people she knew. He was also, sometimes, very kind. And now he was worried about Coulson. Was that love? She tabled the thought for a more practical time.

Like, say, never.

“Do you know Peregrine Five?”

Clint looked up. “I know _the_ Peregrine Five, by reputation, but I've never met any of them. Why?”

“They offered us escort if we were on the west side.”

“We're not.”

“No, but we could get there more easily than back to base.”

“But you're not sure it's a trustworthy offer.”

She shrugged. “I've never met them. You've never met them. How would we know if they were who they claimed to be?”

Clint nodded once. They needed to go-- but if they rushed out there without a plan, they'd all die.

He looked down. “He's still too cold. I gotta--” He looked up, changed his mind about whatever he’d been going to say, and unzipped his vest. Then he pulled his undershirt over his head.

She watched him for a long moment. Was this, too, a choice she could make? It wasn't a debt-- she didn't owe this, not even to Coulson. But she could choose it to be-- a gift. Generosity-- kindness-- the Red Room had taught her neither. 

She stepped out of the doorway and unzipped her pants.

“You don’t have to—“

“I know. But it’s Coulson.” She pulled her shirt over her head. “You take the... front, I’ll take the back.”

Spooning her boss was uncomfortable. It didn't rank high on the list of worst things she'd ever done, but it ranked high on the list of most _revealing_ things she'd ever done, as herself. But she didn't dwell on it; what got more of her attention was how vulnerable he looked, shivering between them. Coulson was never vulnerable, except now he was. That bothered her more than her feelings of discomfort.

Coulson groaned softly, and shuddered. “Hey, boss, it’s okay.” Clint tugged the sheet up higher around him. “We’ve got you. You’re okay.”

“Is this the weirdest circumstance you’ve ever held a workplace conversation in?”

“Oh, hell, no. Coulson and I once spent six hours handcuffed together naked.”

“… oh.”

“It was my second mission for S.H.I.E.L.D., actually.”

“And you stayed?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

Coulson’s shivering was starting to subside. She watched Clint watch him. “How’d he earn your loyalty?”

Clint was silent for a while. “I’ve never seen him be unnecessarily unkind.” He looked at her. “In our world, it’s easy to lose your humanity. When I came to S.H.I.E.L.D… I thought it was inevitable. Coulson showed me I was wrong.”

He looked at her as if he thought she might laugh, but she wasn't going to. She thought of when Coulson had given her ten minutes alone with the man who'd had sex with her knowing she was fifteen. She tried to reconcile that brutal ruthlessness with the kindness she’d seen again and again. To walk that line, you needed to be absolutely sure of yourself— you needed to trust that kindness wasn’t weakness. Natasha didn’t have that kind of trust.

Maybe letting her torture the colonel had been a kindness. She hadn’t thought of it that way before.

“That takes a lot of courage.”

Clint nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Coulson’s voice was weak, but clear. 

“You got hit by a HYDRA dart, sir,” Clint said. “We pulled the dart, but you need medical attention.”

“Shit.”

“How do you feel?” Clint asked.

“Shitty.” That he wasn’t censoring himself was an indication of how bad he was feeling. Part of his demeanor as an imperturbable and faceless government agent was refraining from using colorful language. “My back feels like it’s on fire and I have a terrible headache.”

Clint dug in his pockets, then handed over a bottle of painkillers and some water. “We ran out of lighter. We had to get you under the tap. The water helped.”

“That’s why I feel so bad. The poison’s not neutralized.”

“Right.”

“What’s our exit?”

They exchanged looks over his body, something they never would have gotten away with if he’d been fully himself. “We’re working on it.”

She expected him to roll over and give her a dry look for thinking that she could get away with such an evasive answer. That reaction would have been more welcome than what happened: Coulson nodded and fell back into delirium. 

“Can you try the tub again?”

“Ran out of hot water.”

She pulled the sheet away, put both hands over the pale blue spot, and rubbed vigorously, hoping the friction would increase blood flow. But Coulson gasped with pain as she came in contact with his burned skin. She slowed down and focused on smaller spots of blue. A few of them started to fade, but it wasn’t going to be enough.

“Water,” Coulson muttered. She refilled the bottle from the aging tap, helped him drink, and looked over at Clint. His mouth was a flat line, but he held Coulson steadily, with no sign of the distress she knew he was feeling.

What were their options? They didn't know the ground situation any more. Was H.Y.D.R.A. closing in on this block? It would make a horrible place to take a stand. But unless S.H.I.E.L.D. could hold H.Y.D.R.A., which hadn’t happened so far, the alternative would be capture, torture, and imprisonment. H.Y.D.R.A. could keep each of them as hostage against the others. She could break herself out, even get another person out, but if they drugged all of them, and kept them under for months…

And if—when— they did get out, there’d be no happy reunion waiting. S.H.I.E.L.D. would monitor them closely for a long time, making sure they weren't brainwashed. It would be especially hard on Coulson to be sidelined and treated like the enemy. It would also be a very effective way to cripple their part of S.H.I.E.L.D.

She was going to kill their mole, slowly. Later. “We need to go. Can you get him out?”

“Alone?”

“One of us has to cause a distraction.” 

She was thankful he didn't argue. “I’d risk myself under fire before I risked him.”

It was weakness, she knew, and it could get Coulson killed if they hesitated too long. But she thought she understood. Dead was dead; living with someone else’s death was different. She’d woken from many nightmares of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s battle with the Red Room. “I’ll give you cover. We'll find out where S.H.I.E.L.D.'s lines are, and then I'll get you there.”

Clint’s eyebrows went up. “Last we looked, that's a long way.”

“I’ll distract them. Very thoroughly.” She could do _that_ , even if she didn't survive it.

When had she taken an exit for herself off the priority list?

“Give me a five minute head start.”

Clint gave her a long look. He wasn't stupid; he knew the odds as well as she did. But she appreciated that he didn't try to take the choice from her.

“Okay.” Clint had Coulson half-standing, half-leaning against him. He was going to have a hell of a time moving and shooting like that. But she didn’t dwell on it. It was a problem he was capable of solving.

She pulled her clothes on and checked her guns. She also held on to the bottle of vodka and the gauze, in case she found another lighter. She checked her knives one last time. “Get him out of here, and don’t look back,” she ordered.

“Understood,” Clint said. “Good—“

She looked up. Their eyes met.

“— luck,” he finished.

She looked away, tossed him a casual salute, and sauntered towards the door. “Five minutes.”

She got clear of the building and headed for the nearest gunfire. She had four minutes and thirty seconds to make some noise. Alone, trained in stealth, she could slip through where regular soldiers would be noticed.

Fighting against overwhelming numbers in a small, enclosed space had the advantage that any stray shots the enemy fired would almost certainly hit one of their own. H.Y.D.R.A. never saw her coming. She had two minutes left when the last body hit the floor. She stole one of their earbuds, reloaded, and found a lighter. She waited until she had heard enough to know the location of the next squad, then slipped out running, lit the cocktail, and threw it backwards. The flames were noticeable with thirty seconds to go. She texted Clint the best assessment of the battlefield she could send him in a short time and short space.

She ducked behind cover as H.Y.D.R.A. soldiers slid past her, taking position to hold the line against the S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers they thought were coming. She got behind them, and was almost at their outpost, when one of them saw her.

She took three of them down with four shots and then dove behind the wall as the others started to return fire. One of the soldiers got lucky and grazed her right arm. But with half their people already outside, they were easy pickings. She rifled the little barricaded alley frantically for anything that would explode-- there, a box of grenades. She pulled pins, and ran.

Bullets flew past as she sprinted for the end of the alley. She dove around the corner as the explosion went off, just barely safe from the debris, and hurtled right into the middle of a group of H.Y.D.R.A. agents. The explosion bought her a few seconds before they noticed she was in her midst. 

She killed three of them. Then she was in an open area in the middle of spread-out enemies with those damned dart guns. Taking out the three with the dart guns first meant getting a long slash across her ribs that she hoped wasn’t poisoned. She hoped the explosion had taken out all her previous pursuers—

A bullet whizzed by her head and killed the nearest H.Y.D.R.A. agent. Two more-- _Need to keep my eyes front_ , but who the hell was that?

Her earpiece beeped. “Merry Christmas, Delta Two. Sorry, but we have to go.” Another unfamiliar male voice. Whoever they were, they were taking heavy fire. “Peregrine Four out.”

She was too focused on staying alive to acknowledge. She was panting by the time she was surrounded by bodies. She grabbed a dart gun. People appeared at the end of the street-- but not S.H.I.E.L.D. They hadn’t seen her yet, but Clint and Coulson would be coming that way, so she needed to get their attention. She shot a rain of darts in their direction, and ran the other way.

*

Clint was pretty proud that he’d kept Nat from seeing how badly the poison was fucking him up.

How the hell was Coulson _alive_? He’d gotten a bigger dose than Clint, and had it in his system longer, and still had more of it working its terrible magic.

That was probably why Coulson was rasping hideously, struggling to breathe.

_Nat, is this how you felt in North Carolina? I am so sorry._

His upper right arm, which he needed to shoot and to hold Coulson, was numb. And he was burning up, and covered in sweat.

If Nat’d known, she would have turned her half of the plan into even more of a suicide mission than it already was. And the truth was, there were things even Natasha couldn’t beat all by herself. Not many. But it only took one.

He wouldn't meet her courage— recklessness— with anything less. Even without that, Coulson’d saved his life so many times— had made him admit his life was even worth saving in the first place— and it was payback time. As long as Clint got him to help, everything else was secondary.

So he peeled himself up from where he'd fallen on the pavement, and found Coulson, slumped against the wall.

He couldn’t— he couldn’t move his right bicep at all. He grabbed his bow out of his right hand with his left, and thrust it at Coulson. “Need you to hold this.”

Coulson’s eyes didn’t open.

Clint grabbed Coulson’s hand with his one good hand and forced his fingers to close around the damn thing. Then he pulled Coulson’s other arm over his shoulders and drew his gun with his left hand. They moved down the street like a drunk three-legged cow.

Clint’d seen one. Well, not drunk. But he’d seen enough drunks, too, he could use his imagination.

This street was quiet. Not far away, explosions and shots were ringing out like it was the apocalypse. If they were still shooting, then Nat was still keeping them busy-- it was too much to hope she had reinforcements-- but he’d watched what seemed like every H.Y.D.R.A. agent in the city converge on her position.

He couldn’t worry about that now. She’d gotten them a way through. 

If he never saw her again, he was gonna be fucked up.

He couldn’t worry about that now, either.

The burn mark Natasha had left was the only part of his upper arm he could feel. Felt exactly like the one Dad had given him-- _Nope. Not going there._

The world swam before his eyes, and everything… vanished, leaving him weightless. Then he came back to his body, with black spots swimming across his eyes. _Bad. I need those_.

How much farther to the S.H.I.E.L.D. lines? He’d lost all sense of distance. _Keep it together. Coulson needs you_.

Coulson’s weight was falling more and more across his shoulders. Clint couldn’t breathe. But Coulson wasn’t putting any pressure on his ribs—

Oh. He was gasping for breath, just like Coulson.

He stopped in the middle of the street and doubled over to get some air. He needed to stay up. Coulson needed him.

His earpiece beeped. “... Delta One... Peregrine Four... copy?”

Was it his hearing or the connection that was bad? “No copy,” he grunted.

Up ahead. What was that? Shouting. In English. He squinted, thought he saw black uniforms, but he wasn’t sure. His eyes were going. _All I need is my legs_.

A noise behind him-- he spun, gun out-- two H.Y.D.R.A. soldiers. He shot one, aimed at the other, and then he was out of time. He shoved Coulson down and dove for cover. His leg backstopped the bullet-- not bad-- bad enough-- He gasped, and got off a wild shot that killed the second man. _Fuck. Oh, fuck_.

Coulson was down and not moving. He was lying in a growing pool of blood, but it was probably Clint's. _Need. To get up._

There was a snatch of song running through his head, half-remembered. _Ain't no grave can hold my body down._

He put weight on his left arm. Then on his right leg.

_I could use that band of angels right now._

Then he got his right arm under Coulson and hauled him up, somehow.

Then he put weight on his left leg.

Someone screamed. Oh-- it was him. No screaming; too much attention.

But they were one step closer to safety.

He hopped on his right leg. The impact jarred the bullet. He blinked out tears of pain. The numbness was spreading down his arm. At this rate he was going to have to tie Coulson to him.

Someone was running, up ahead. Towards them. Someone was coming.

*

_I hope Clint got through with Coulson_.

She'd given them all the time she could. She was almost out of time for herself. Backed up against a wall, low on ammo— if they killed her, the show would be over. It had been a long time. The other two should have gotten through— unless—

Worry later. If she didn’t die here, then she would find them.

But she wasn't done yet. She feinted, grabbed a man as a meat shield, snapped his neck, and stole his gun. She felt something press against her thigh— a grenade in his back pocket. She shot the nearest three agents and ducked the return fire. She was peppered with debris marks and her uniform was in tatters from knives, but she hadn’t gotten shot, not yet.

She took the grenade, pulled the pin, and threw it. H.Y.D.R.A. flinched back. That gave her the opening she needed to sprint three steps to the nearest door. She kicked it in— a bullet took out a chunk of her hip— and slammed it shut behind her. She ran for the stairs. The explosion blew in the door. Footsteps behind her-- she hadn’t killed them all. 

She didn’t bother calling for help. The mole was gunning for her. What better way than by just not sending backup?

The first of her pursuit reached the stairs. She turned on the landing and fired, one-two, then kept going. The stairs doubled back— as long as she kept at least one flight ahead of them, she had cover—

Her legs were burning from the ascent. She was bleeding from a dozen places. Her hip was stinging persistently in a way she wouldn't think about. She turned and fired again— and turned back to face a door. She’d run out of stairs.

She’d bought herself enough time to pick the lock, but no more. And then she was on the flat roof, with no cover at all, long out of knives, with a gun with two bullets. She braced herself against the door, and waited for her attackers to break through.

_Everyone has to die sometime._

*

Things got hazy after S.H.I.E.L.D. caught up with them.

It would be so easy to let go, pass out, let the soldiers take care of it all. Take care of them.

But he forced himself to stay awake as they loaded him and Coulson onto transport to go… somewhere. He hadn’t caught that part. He should have. But at least he was staying awake. 

Not everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. was on their side. And Natasha was still out there.

The medics gave Clint a shot of something, in his numb arm. He let them. If they wanted him dead, all they’d have to do was wait. This way would at least be less painful. 

But it wasn’t lethal. It was some sort of antidote. The feeling in his arm started to come back.

That was unfortunate.

One medic tended to Clint’s leg. He wasn’t really sure what she was doing. He should be paying better attention. But she looked up, and saw the look on his face, and gave him another shot.

Things got even hazier after that. In his dazed state, he couldn’t believe that someone who’d made it stop hurting had evil designs on him. 

“H’w’she?”

The medic looked up again. “I beg your pardon?”

Clint tried again. He nodded at Coulson. “How is he?” 

_Phil, I swear to God, if you don’t make it through after all this_ …

She hesitated. “I won’t lie to you—“

“Good.”

“— he’s in serious condition. We’re not sure how he made it this far. We haven’t seen one this bad.”

“‘cause he’s Phil Fucking Coulson,” Clint slurred.

Her eyes crinkled with amusement. “And what does that make you for getting him here? Clinton Fucking Barton?”

He grinned. “Nah. Just Clint.”

She became serious again. “R&D worked up an antidote. It’s what we gave you. It’s cut the treated mortality rate from 20% to 4%. If he can just fight a little longer…”

“He’s good at that.” Clint hoped Coulson hadn’t finally just… run out. _Phil. I swear on everything anyone's ever found holy-- you better live, you bastard._

They made it to a S.H.I.E.L.D. forward base. Or rear base. Or something. He looked around. It was an actual base, with trucks and planes and stuff. Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. was just “borrowing” it.

Fury was there-- where was the Helicarrier?-- trench coat swirling behind him, looking so angry and _deadly_ that it didn’t look melodramatic at all. When he saw Coulson on the stretcher, his eye narrowed, and his expression froze.

He stood beside Clint, who was propped in a chair against the wall. They both watched Coulson get wheeled in. “Thank you, Agent Barton,” Fury said quietly.

“He’s not…” Clint followed that sentence to its end. It wasn’t a nice end. “He could still die.”

“I know. But you gave him the chance. It’s all he needs.” Fury looked Clint up and down. “Get them to take you back next, you look like hell.”

He shook his head. “I’m all right.” He didn’t look down to check, but he would have felt it if his pants had spontaneously ignited, so he was fine on that point. “But, sir, Agent Romanoff is still out there.”

Fury’s expression flattened out. “She, and about fifty other agents.”

“Sir, she cleared an exit for us. She tore through the block and engaged every damn H.Y.D.R.A. agent she could see so we could get through. She made a suicide run so I could get Coulson to safety.”

“I understand that, Agent Barton. But I can’t spare a team to go look for her. If the fight’s really that big, then other agents in the area should be able to support her.”

“Sir, you don’t need a _team_ —“

“She’s very good at what she does. If anyone can come through that alive, it’ll be her. Now go get some medical attention.”

“Sir,” Clint muttered.

_IF anyone can come through that alive._

He obeyed Fury’s instructions to the letter and blatantly ignored the spirit. He appropriated an empty wheelchair and wheeled himself into Medical. There, he stole a crutch, ditched the wheelchair, and tried to casually lean on the crutch while keeping it behind him. He grabbed the nearest clipboard and pretended to study it carefully. He glanced up and saw a doctor looking at him with confusion, but just then the doors swung open again with a new flood of wounded. The doctor, and everyone else, was distracted. Clint snuck out as the doors closed. There. Free. Now, that way, _quickly_.

He picked up some attention, limping past on a crutch, but he looked straight ahead and pretended he was going exactly where he was supposed to be going. It worked nearly as well on S.H.I.E.L.D. agents as on anyone else. No one stopped him from reaching the tarmac.

He found a likely helicopter, parked near the edge, and hobbled over. He found the nearest guard before the kid found him. “Agent?”

The kid snapped to attention, then looked confused, trying to figure out if Clint outranked him or not. “Agent.”

“I’m Agent Barton. I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes… sir?”

Clint suppressed a smile. “They sent me out here to check on the helicopters— I'm not good for much else,” he indicated the crutch with a grimace, “and they said they’re having trouble with the comms. Are all these fueled up and ready to go?”

The kid pointed. “All except that one.”

“Excellent. Thanks. Now. I need your gun, I lost mine.”

“Uh… my gun?”

“Yes, agent, your gun.”

He looked like he wanted to refuse. Clint just stared at him, waiting patiently, like it was a perfectly reasonable request. Finally, the kid handed over his pistol.

Clint checked to make sure it was fully loaded, then tucked it in his empty holster. “Good. Thank you. Now, I need you to come over here and tell me what you can see. My eyes've never been too good.” Amazingly, his pants _still_ didn’t spontaneously combust.

_If he's heard of me, this is going to be awkward._

But the kid looked just normally weirded out, not suspicious. “What I can see?”

“Yeah. Over there.” Clint pointed so that the kid had to come stand on his right side to see what he was pointing at. It hurt to raise his right arm.

“I, um. Helicopters?”

“Yeah, good. C’n you make out the identification number? Don’t really wanna—“ He leaned on one foot and hefted the crutch. “— go all the way over there.”

“I, uh. I. Let me try.” He took a few steps forward. “Uh, AL3…”

“Good!” Clint called, hobbling sideways towards the nearest helicopter.

“… D-21-47…”

Just a few more steps—

“… Z-O-595!”

—A few more steps—

“Did you need any other— HEY!”

Clint lunged for the helicopter.

“Stop right there! Or I’ll— uhhh…”

Clint smirked. _It’s called killing two birds with one stone, kid_. He dragged himself inside, saw stars as his bad leg _thunked_ the seat, and slammed the door closed.

The kid— _Kid, you’re an IDIOT_ — started banging on the door. Clint initiated start-up and ignored him. He kept banging, really hard now. Clint banged back to get his attention, and pointed firmly upward to the rotors. He flipped a switch, and they started to spin. The kid took a deep breath—

For a minute, Clint was afraid he was going to do something _really_ stupid—

— and ran for the building.

_Good kid_.

He pulled the headset on and took off, staying low and heading out as fast as he could. Immediately, a voice came over the comm: “Unknown pilot, you are not cleared to depart, return to base now or you will be shot down.”

“Scofeld, that you?”

“… uh, unknown pilot, you are not—“

“This is Delta One, returning to the mission site to pick up something I left behind, I would really appreciate not being shot down.” He banked towards the fighting. “And if you could update me on H.Y.D.R.A.’s movements, that'd be great.” He hit a patch of turbulence and winced.

Another pause. He only needed to stall them a bit longer, and then he’d be close enough that they couldn’t shoot him down without risking hitting their own people below. Probably.

A new voice: Director Fury. “Agent _Barton_ ,” he snapped. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Retrieving Agent Romanoff, sir.” Two more helicopters had taken off behind him. “Are you going to make me dodge these guys, or can I go get my partner?”

“Barton, get your ass back here _now_ , or I will have you hauled up on insubordination charges before you can blink.”

“Sorry, sir. You can do that after she's safe. Besides, you never ordered me _not_ to borrow a helicopter and go get her.”

As he’d hoped, that bought him a moment of dead silence. He pictured Fury tripping over his own tongue in his… fury.

“Flying this thing is tricky with just one person, sir, my response time might be a little high.” And then he was over the battle, and he needed all his attention for flying and searching for Natasha. He thought about her last known direction, thought about the view of the city he'd gotten from the rooftops, where the logical place for her to go would be, and went in that direction.

But something distracted him. The bandage on his leg had come loose. He was bleeding on the floor. A race against blood loss would make things interesting.

He banked around the battle once, but couldn’t see through the smoke. He pulled up, high, and took out his phone. _This is probably worse than texting and driving._

_ride is here make some noise_ he sent. Then he dove again, risking enemy fire as he came closer to the buildings this time. The eagle on the side of the chopper wasn’t inconspicuous. _Where— dammit, Nat—_

Maybe she wasn't on her feet any more.

There-- movement on a roof. He dodged a missile and got closer. That— yes— yes? A small woman in a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform against twenty or more H.Y.D.R.A. goons, who else could it be? This thing had to have guns—

It wasn’t meant to be piloted _and_ shot by one person. His right arm ached fiercely and his stomach roiled as he strafed the roof. But his hands didn’t shake and his aim was dead on; half the soldiers fell, and Nat was untouched. She rose, firing over her pile of debris, and then started throwing debris-- out of ammo, apparently.

She wasn’t standing straight, but she was _alive_. He felt faint as he dropped down, down— shouldn’t it be the other way, didn’t you feel faint while _climbing_ — _not now, you can collapse and die once you’re on the ground_. He cranked the gun all the way to the left and fired as he came down between Nat and the soldiers. Someone shot the chopper with something _big_ — he rocked, slammed his head against the wall, and struggled to regain control.

_Tell me I didn’t just shred Nat with the rotors_ —

No. He took another hit as he threw the door open. She hauled herself in, covered in blood. The second she had a secure grip, he took them up. Why was she still dangling, how badly was she hurt— worry about that later— but then she pulled herself up. He kept climbing. She got the door closed.

“Gun!”

She took control and strafed the roof. But there were soldiers massing in the street with unpleasantly large guns—

A missile streaked past and took out the entire knot of soldiers. The explosion rocked the helicopter. He checked the scopes. _Should have done that before, flyboy_. The two choppers from S.H.I.E.L.D. had caught up with them. He activated the comm. “Thanks for the assist, uh, escort.”

“You’re welcome, Delta One.” The pilot sounded amused. “We have orders to bring you back if you have Delta Two onboard. Please don’t turn this into a chase. That would be embarrassing for all of us.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Suddenly all of it, the pain, everything, hit him in a wave. He slumped against the back of his seat and tried not to gasp. He looked over at Nat. She was soaked with blood. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks.”

He snorted, and tried to focus.

“No, I mean it, thanks.”

“Any time. Just not… any time… soon. Please.” He took a shaky breath. “Is this a bad time to say I’m going to pass out before we land?” Things were going black.

She leaned over and grabbed the right-hand controls. “Just hold on and keep the nose up.”

“I know, I _taught_ you how to fly.” Mostly. But he was grateful. Then he lost a few seconds. When he opened his eyes again, the ground was rushing up at them—

He grabbed the left-hand controls. “I’ve got it! Got it.”

“You’d better.” Her voice was rough with pain. “We’d take out half the base.”

“Fury’d say ‘told you so.’”

She laughed shakily. “Pull up, pull—“

They hit rough air, jogging his leg, sending her left side into the controls. She made a strangled whining noise. They shed speed at a rate that had the altimeter bucking. His vision was going in and out—

And then they were down. Hard. He pitched forward onto the controls.

*

_Ow_.

He opened his eyes.

That was a mistake.

“We had to _pry you both_ out of the cockpit.” Fury was leaning over him.

“Nnn.”

“ _Unconscious. Both of you. Out of a helicopter_.”

“Coulson.”

Fury leaned back a little. “He’ll be fine.”

“R'm'n'ff?”

Fury looked disgruntled that Clint wasn’t paying attention. “In the next bed.”

He turned his head far enough to see her. She wasn’t moving. She’d been conscious… “What happened?”

“Blood loss and a concussion.”

“She… we…”

“Other than apparently doomed to a life of terminal stupidity, you’ll both be fine.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” Clint let his eyes close against Fury’s indignant expression.

*

He opened his eyes again. He took stock. Right arm, not reporting for duty. Left leg, not reporting for duty. Rest of body, high as a kite on painkillers. IV, in his left hand. Ditto for blood transfusion.

“Jesus, I feel like shit,” Nat muttered. His adrenaline surged at the sound of her voice. She was alive. Phil was alive. Against every single odd in the book. That was all that mattered.

He turned his head. “We should start a club.”

“Did I miss anything?” Her voice was thick and groggy.

“Just Fury.”

“What’d he want?”

“To yell.”

“Mmm.”

“If you feel half as bad as you look, I’m sorry.”

At the new voice, Clint raised his head. “But you look… better.”

“I feel better.” Coulson was pale, and not in his usual clothes, but he was sitting up and coherent. “Thank you. To both of you. You saved my life.”

Nat made a dismissive noise, effectively speaking for them both.

“There’s just one thing I’ve been wondering, sir,” Clint said.

“What’s that?”

“My memory’s kind of hazy… You didn’t lose your underwear on the way out, did you? Because it looked like it might be vintage. Hard to replace.”

Coulson looked like he was going to kill him. “No, I did not.”

“Oh, good.”

“They’re _not_ ,” Coulson continued, “ _vintage_.”

“I… s’pose that makes it a little less weird. ‘Cause you buyin’ Captain America’s underwear off eBay, that would be weird.” His brain-to-mouth filter was shot to _hell_. He didn't even care. They'd given him the good drugs.

Coulson made a strangled noise that sounded like “Nrrk.”

“— _Coulson!_ ” Clint said, with scandalized, delighted horror. “You _didn’t_ —“

“Agent Coulson, has your entire strike team lost its collective mind? Or is whatever they have contagious? You shouldn't be _up_. Do you know how much blood they had to give you to save your life?”

Clint enjoyed the chastened expression on Coulson's face way too much. Usually, Coulson was the one giving _him_ that lecture.

“I have a battle to run, Agent,” Fury added. “I don't have time to baby-sit you.”

“With respect, Director, my people are here, and my place is here,” Coulson said.

“Agent--” Fury said. 

“Uh… gun,” Clint said. Then he tried to lunge out of bed and tackle the person pointing the gun at him— no, at _Natasha_. But he couldn’t move— Was Coulson even armed--

Fury whirled-- 

Before he was in position, someone stepped up behind the shooter and hit him on the head, hard. He went down without a sound. He didn’t get a second chance. Fury put his foot in the middle of his chest and stared at him in distaste. 

“Agent _Broad_ ,” he said with disgust. “Yeah, you were on the short list.”

“He _was_ the short list,” Nat muttered.

Clint was still staring at their erstwhile rescuer. “Is that a _real_ severed limb you hit him with?”

“Of course not, there’s not nearly enough blood.” Nat’s voice turned thoughtful. “Unless it’s frozen. Or drained.”

“God, Romanoff, that’s disgusting,” Carter said. “It’s a real non-human severed limb. Also, incidentally, Director, I found the Doombot.” She hoisted the limb a little higher.

“Not nearly _enough_? So, what, they put actual blood in those things?”

“Yes, to make it look realistic,” Coulson said. 

Fury was still holding Broad down, which was a little excessive, since he was unconscious. Or maybe he was protecting Broad’s unconscious body from Coulson, Nat, and Clint. Hard to tell. “Thank you, Agent Carter. Give the pieces to R &D. And send Security down here.”

“Sir.” Carter left the scene still holding the severed arm. Where was the rest of the... body?

“There’s really a Doombot?”

“Was. Apparently.” Coulson seemed to be wondering the same thing about the remains that Clint was.

Clint sat up, and inched closer to the end of the bed. “So. That’s our mole.”

“Yes. You can’t take him apart, Agent Barton. There are protocols for these things.”

Clint thought “protocols” meant “I get to take him apart first.”

“That was anti-climactic,” Nat muttered, laying back. But she looked shook up. Because Carter had saved her life?

“He made it all the way in here without being stopped,” Coulson said. “And don't be too disappointed. If you hadn't survived, he wouldn't have had the chance to kill you.”

“I am not,” Nat assured him, “at _all_ disappointed.”

Fury turned Broad over to Security and ordered them to search the area with a few scathing words. As soon as he and Coulson had both turned their backs, Nat sat up and wobbled. “I hate hospitals.”

“Hate 'em too. Worst day of my life was in a hospital.” He could tell her that, right? It was okay to tell her. “Woke up alone in one when I was seventeen. Barney'd taken their side.”

She was looking at him funny. If his mind had been clearer he would have been able to figure it out. “I'm sorry.” Her voice meant something, too, but he didn't know what.

Oh, God, they _did_ have him on the good drugs, what was he saying? But, come on, it _was_. Or at least one of the top three contenders. The other two'd been finding out Mom was dead, and the time Dad'd stabbed him. But waking up alone in the hospital, not knowing if Trick Shot and the Swordsman were still after him, not knowing where he _was_ , not knowing where Barney was or… why he’d gone along with the other two; realizing he might as well not have a brother at all, that he’d lost the last of his family; not knowing how he was going to pay the bill, or how soon the police were going to start looking for him, or if they would look for him there. Not knowing much of anything, except for two things he’d known too well, that he was completely alone and that he’d killed an innocent man-- it'd been hellish.

This wasn't actually that bad, in comparison. Sure, he'd been poisoned and shot, but he was alive, nothing terrible was hanging over his head, and he was pretty clearly not alone any more.

And they'd given him good, _good_ drugs.

They... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: in this chapter, someone is forcibly injected with hallucinogens. Multiple people are given burns as a medical treatment.
> 
> The DoS attack against the Department of Defense, the H5N1 outbreak, and the transfer of the 1st Brigade are all historical events that happened at approximately the time this chapter is set. As far as I know, that is where the resemblance to reality ends...
> 
> The Secret Empire is a villain from Marvel comics history, and they do indeed have dorky helmets. “Ain't No Grave” is a song by Johnny Cash.


	4. Interlude: What Happens In Cancún

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains on-screen or referenced torture, murder, and suicide. See the end notes for more detailed, spoilery warnings.

She took leave and disappeared to her safe house in Odessa, intending to stay until she was positive that the drugs the Empire had given her didn't have permanent side effects.

But Coulson called her four days early. “I know. I’m sorry.” He didn't sound very sorry. “We need you. It’s double pay and twice your remaining leave days.”

She thought her head was fine— relatively. And Coulson wouldn’t have called her if it weren’t important.

Which was how she found herself sitting at a table outside a café in Cancún, drinking a ridiculous drink with a little umbrella that could be lethal if deployed properly, and checking her phone every two minutes. She got a lot of sympathetic glances from the passersby. Well, the male ones. Well, her breasts did.

“I know exactly where I want to stick this umbrella,” she muttered, after the latest round of leering.

Clint made a choking noise over the earpiece. “Spare my delicate ears.”

“I wasn’t planning on using it on you. Or on anyone’s ears.”

“I know.”

“Any sign?”

“None. I’ll tell you if I see him.”

This was the fifth iteration of that conversation in two hours, but Clint didn’t snap at her. Presumably he realized he was on top of a building, out of sight and away from leering pedestrians, while she was stuck at ground-level in the sweltering humidity, resisting the temptation to turn her little umbrella into a nutcracker.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” a man asked in Spanish.

She looked up. “Sí,” she said flatly, careful to match his local accent.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that I don’t see anyone there.”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Who could possibly stand up such a pretty woman?”

“A dead man, when I see him.”

“Let me buy you a drink while you wait.”

“No. Leave me alone.”

“It’s just that—“

She looked up and met his eyes. “ _Leave me alone_.”

He stepped back a step. “All right, all right, suit yourself.” He called her something uncomplimentary as he walked off.

She heard faint noises over the earpiece. “Barton, if you’re laughing, I’m going to kill you.” She twitched the umbrella back and forth on the table.

“Not you. Him. Scurrying away with his tail between his legs.”

The waiter appeared. “Would you like another drink?” He stared at her empty glass pointedly, then at the street, as if to say, _Buy a drink or leave_.

“Yes, please. Another of the same.”

The waiter brought her drink. She confiscated the umbrella. Now she had two. “You could come down here and make yourself useful,” she suggested.

“Oh yeah? How’s that?” He sounded amused.

“Sit and glare at any man who gets too close.”

“You can take care of yourself.”

“Of course I can. But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

He didn’t reply. They both knew she wasn’t serious. “It is two hours past,” he said finally. “Might as well call it a day. Try again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow I’m strapping down my chest and putting a fake wart on my nose,” she muttered.

“Hey.” She heard him start to move. “We can work something else out.”

She didn’t smile, because she didn’t know if he was looking in her direction. “No, we can’t.”

“Are you saying I’m not pretty enough to sit at a café?” He sounded hurt.

She snorted. “No, Barton, you’re ravishingly beautiful. But I’m afraid if you took my place, so many people would be swooning over you that we’d miss the target.”

“Ah, well.” He sounded mollified. “I s’pose there’s that.”

“Besides, you said yourself. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can—“ He breathed in a little too quickly.

“Hawkeye?”

“Fine, I’m fine. Just my leg.”

They’d called him off of leave too early, too, and he was still limping. She didn’t say anything more. He wouldn’t welcome it if she pushed her solicitousness any more than she would welcome it from him. “Heading back.” She pocketed her little umbrellas and went inside to pay her bill.

“Meet you there.”

She was going to have to re-evaluate her standards for 'hellish.' She’d never been anywhere as hot and sticky as this. Her light, thin clothing stuck with sweat to her body in a way that got her more unwelcome attention. Her fingers closed around her umbrellas. Now she had two. Two was a nice number. Other things came in pairs, too.

When she reached the quiet lodging house where they had the attic, Clint was just ahead of her. She caught up with him on the stairs. His face was drawn, practically grey. “Hey.” She followed him in. “Are you okay?”

“‘m fine. Side effect of the poison.” He sat down heavily. “It’ll wear off eventually.”

She frowned. “Does S.H.I.E.L.D.—“ 

“Yeah. They said it’s not permanent.” He looked up, and attempted a crooked smile. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” She closed the door, and put down her bag.

Clint pulled off the bag holding his quiver, then undid his shooting gloves. He looked up. “What’re those?”

She looked down. “Umbrellas.”

“Huh.”

She checked the room, which one of them should have done as soon as they came in. She blamed the heat, getting into their brains. There wasn’t much to check— two creaky beds with thin mattresses, a sink, a table with two chairs, and a little alcove with a toilet. No assassins lurking under the beds. She should have gotten food— but it was too hot for food. She’d go out later, when it had cooled off.

If it ever did. It was sunset, but the heat still poured out of the buildings that had absorbed it during the day, and the stickiness continued unabated.

Clint opened the window, and took his holster off his back. “I hate concealed carry, the damn thing sticks to my back.”

“Everything sticks to your back when it’s this hot.” She opened the other windows. The thin stream of hot air circulating didn’t help much, but it was something.

He stripped off his shirt, then his undershirt. Then he undid his belt and unzipped his pants—

She looked away. “Uh, what the hell?”

“It’s about that hot. Too hot to have clothes on.” She heard him drop his pants on the ground— along with his boxer-briefs? she wasn’t going to look— and lay down on the floor. “Oh God, I’m marinating in my own sweat.”

“Thanks, I really needed to know that.”

“If you wanna— I won’t look.”

She considered that. She trusted him about as well as she trusted anybody— which was to say, she trusted Clint Barton _qua_ Clint Barton very far, and Clint Barton _qua_ human, somewhat less than that. The gap had nothing to do with him and everything to do with almost every other person she had ever known. She simply could not take off her clothes as nonchalantly as he had, not without carefully considering and calculating the effect. She’d been honed into too good of a weapon for that. Some habits ran too deep, even with Clint, whom she was as sure as she could possibly be was not sexually interested in her. “I know.” 

_I won’t look_ , to give her privacy, but also to spare her an audience for which she would feel compelled to perform.

_Fuck this_. The Red Room complicated so many things, even when they were as gone from her head as they possibly could be. She pulled her shirt over her head, then stepped out of her pants. She went to the sink and saturated her underwear and her hair. Then she kicked her clothes aside and stretched out, spread-eagled, on the floor.

“Would this be a bad time to suggest strip poker?” Clint asked after a few minutes.

“There's no _good_ time to suggest strip poker.”

“Well—“

“I don't want to know.”

He huffed quietly in amusement.

At least the windows had screens, so they didn’t have to choose between mosquitoes or stifling heat. Finally, hours after sundown, a sea breeze sprang up, and changed things from sweltering to merely hot.

She heard Clint roll over. “‘m gonna go get some food. Bring it back.”

“I’ll go.” She reached for her shirt. 

“I can _walk_ , for God’s sake.”

If he was going to be like this the entire time until his leg healed up-- She thought about how she’d feel in his situation, and her irritation faded. “It’s _me_ , Clint.” She risked looking over at him and was relieved that he did have his underwear on. “I know you can walk, but you don’t have to keep up appearances for me.”

She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but she knew he was looking at her. “And I’m only good at massaging egos when I’m getting paid to do it,” she warned.

“Point taken,” he sighed.

A cold breeze had kicked up. Thunder sounded as she bought food at a little 24-hour grocery store. The sky opened up as she hurried back. When she unlocked the door, her clothes were plastered to her skin much worse than they’d been before.

Clint was sitting against the wall, mostly dressed, watching the lightning. He looked up and tossed her his shirt. She tossed him the bag of food in return, and turned her back to exchange her soaked shirt for his damp one. She sat down beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. They ate in silence as the storm entertained them.

*

The next day found her sitting in front of another café in the same neighborhood, with another fruity drink. This one didn’t have an umbrella. She felt cheated.

“I’m not seein’ him,” Clint said. “We knew the intel was shaky.”

“Yeah. Maybe the police spooked him.”

“You want we should give it another—“

Following one particular woman with her gaze, she didn’t hear the rest. Different hair, but that profile, that walk— 

Adrenaline surged through her arteries.

“I know her.” She rose, leaving money on the table to cover her bill, as soon as the woman reached a busy intersection.

“What? Who?”

“A block ahead of me. Tall, slender, dark hair piled up on top of her head, sunglasses.” She crossed the street in a concealing surge of other pedestrians.

“Yeah, I see her.”

“She’s from the Red Room.”

A _long_ pause. “In charge?“

“No. A trainee like me.” Her heart was pounding in her chest, no matter how she tried to tell herself to calm down. _I’m not the only one who escaped._

She followed the woman for about a mile, staying far enough back to be out of sight. She lost her, twice, but Clint gave her the trail again from his perch. 

“It’s a bus stop,” Clint reported when the other woman had stopped moving. “Heading south. There’s another right behind it.” His quickened breathing indicated that he was on the move. “Just need two minutes—“

She got close enough to verify that both buses were going to the same location— eventually. Damn it, getting on the first one, with—

Tonya. Her name was Tonya. 

— getting on the first bus would be too risky, but if she _lost_ _her_ —

Passengers fought for a place on the first bus. She hung back and watched. Tonya definitely boarded, and chose a seat at the back. She probably wasn’t getting off at a nearby stop, then.

The second bus was filling up when Clint appeared beside her. They split up, each taking a window seat on the left side, where they’d be able to watch whoever got on and off the bus ahead.

Two hours had passed before her earpiece clicked. She stared ahead, but her eyes couldn’t make out what was going on up ahead. But if Clint said that was their stop, then that was their stop.

It was a medium-sized town, with enough activity in the streets to hide them. “Up ahead,” Clint murmured. Yes: Tonya was walking casually, but something about her stride…

“She knows she’s being followed,” she murmured back.

“I can distract her while—“

“No.” Clint was a great fighter, but he'd be outmatched, injured and close in against a Red Room agent. “Cover me.”

“Got it.” He faded into the next alley.

Natasha took a bus up the street and past Tonya. She stumbled into a tall, fat man as she got off the bus, and the resulting tangle in the line of passengers waiting to board hid her from anyone looking west. She waited around the corner, out of sight.

Footsteps passed, but not the right ones. Finally, she heard the stride approach… and hesitate.

“Do you remember the time they sent us into the woods with boar spears?” Nat murmured in Russian.

A ragged gasp, then running footsteps. Nat whirled around the corner and took off after her, dodging pedestrians and street vendors as she followed Tonya across a plaza and into a store. She could get a knife or a bullet in her gut any minute—

She burst out of the back of the store and nearly ran into Tonya, who turned and sprinted for the stairs. Nat looked up and saw what had startled her: Clint, silhouetted clearly across the street. She loved having a partner who thought as quickly as she did. She took the stairs two at a time, listening for any sign that Tonya was pausing to set up an ambush. Six flights up, she hurtled onto the roof—

Just as Clint took a running jump and landed heavily on the other side, effectively trapping Tonya between them.

Trapping a Red Room agent was never a good idea. She forced herself to keep her hand off her gun.

“I’m not here to hurt you! Do you remember me?”

Tonya stared, gun pointed straight at Nat’s heart. “Na… Natalia.”

“Yeah.” She studied the other woman in the bright, direct sunlight. She didn’t look good. There were dark circles under her eyes, disguised with makeup, and she was very thin.

“What…” Her voice was shaking. “What happened?”

_She went through withdrawal. Worse than I did_. “Someone took out the Red Room. They killed all the rest.”

“It’s been a long time.” Tonya swallowed. Her hands were shaking. “I’m not sure you’re real.”

“Are you active?”

Tonya smiled. “Who’s paying you to ask?”

“No one.”

“I get by.”

“They’re still in your head, aren’t they,” Nat said after a minute.

Tonya’s hand tightened on the trigger. She looked like a wild, hunted animal. But she didn’t speak.

“I can help you. I can help you get them out of your head.”

“They’re all I have left,” Tonya whispered.

_No. No, they’re poisoning you._ “If… if you want, I can help you put yourself back together.” _Please. Come with me. I need you._

Clint was watching them, stone-faced. How much Russian did he remember? Was he following this?

“I can’t,” Tonya said. “I— I can’t.”

“It’s not harder than anything they asked us to do.” She took a step forward, keeping her hands visible and unthreatening. 

“It’s been a shitty month,” Tonya said after a minute. “It’s like I keep living it over and over again. But— there’s never— they never stop the voices.”

_A shitty_ — Nat’s heart sank. _It’s been eighteen months_. “If you want, I can help you stop them.”

“I can stop them, too.”

“But you haven’t.”

“No. Not yet.” She smiled. “Do you know what I came here to do?”

Nat studied her. “Kill someone, I’m guessing.”

“Yes. Old habits die hard, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Lots of things die hard.”

“If you want out, I can help you get out. Tonya. Look at me. I’m better. I’m my own person.”

Tonya flinched from that. “It’s not— possible.”

She sprinted for the edge.

Clint lunged as she passed him, but he was too far away. He started forward on his bad leg, stopped— Tonya reached Nat—

Nat didn’t move.

Tonya toppled over the edge. Seconds later, Nat heard the impact.

She didn’t— move. Breathe. Think.

Clint’s motion jarred her back into awareness. Unfortunately. He stared at her, with shock, horror, and anger she’d never seen on his face before. “What the _fuck_.”

Nat took one step towards the edge, and looked down. She only needed one look to know that Tonya was very dead.

Clint looked, too. “You could have stopped her!”

“She made her choice.” She felt like her body had gone over the edge, too, and she was just lingering here, detached, for a few more minutes.

“ _She was crazy!_ ” Clint’s hands were balled into fists by his sides. 

“I wouldn’t take her choice from her.” Someone else was speaking through her mouth, because she was—

_Natasha’s not home right now. Please leave a message. Thank you._

“We could have, we could have brought her back, gotten her help, they could have fixed her like they fixed you—!”

And then Natasha was back. She rounded on him. “There was no choice in the Red Room!”

Clint stared.

“Do you understand, Clint, there was _no choice_ ,” she snarled. “They told us who to fuck, they told us who to kill— I once, they once, they wanted to punish a girl, they’d decided to kill her, but they gave her the illusion of freedom, they staged a combat, they said it was trial by combat, but she never had a chance, I was one of the best— I killed her—“ She remembered her hands around the other woman— no, they’d only been girls then— _No— stop_ — “They gave me no choice, they gave _her_ no choice, they made it a sport, a, a _demonstration_ of our effectiveness.” She was tripping over her words, anguished babble spilling out. “Another girl, to execute her, they gave her an extra dose of drugs to make sure she’d obey, and then they ordered her to kill herself. And even then, damn it, she _fought_ , she wouldn’t do it, she fought the command, and her brain snapped under the strain, and they shot her like a _dog_ , Clint!” Was she even speaking English—

But Clint’s face was frozen, a terrible mask of horror and pity, so he must have understood her. And that expression— that was why, for all the awful things he’d seen and done, he would always be the innocent one.

“And that face you’re making—“ She choked her voice down into something resembling control, low against her raw throat— “At what I’m telling you, imagine _living with it_ , Clint. I _would not_ force that choice on her.”

She was out of control, she needed to stop, she _couldn’t_ — Clint was just staring—

“Do you think I haven’t _longed_ for someone who understood?” She could only manage a whisper now. “Do you really think I haven’t dreamed of finding someone, someone else who made it out, who I didn’t fail, who _knows_ , without me having to paint it for them in painful detail? Like this? But I _would not_ —“ Her voice cracked. “Make _her_ pay the price for _my_ , my—“ She spit the word out contemptuously before it choked her: “ _Loneliness_.”

“Kl— Klaipeda,” he said finally, his voice terrible. “I— you—“

“You gave me a choice in Klaipeda. A choice.” He’d searched her and bound her, but only after she’d lowered her gun willingly. “You didn’t force me to choose anything. Ever.” She looked over the side, at the only peace Tonya would ever know. “And I— I passed along the favor.”

He swallowed, and ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his nervous tell. She felt—

She didn’t want to feel. Anything at all.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before he said, “Someone will be… coming. Let’s go.” She followed him back down the stairs and let herself dissolve into the job, the necessity of getting out without being seen. A crowd of horrified, curious onlookers had gathered around the body. She didn’t look back. She followed Clint, through an alley, down the street, back to the bus stop. An automaton. A very effective Natasha-bot. _Better than the original. Capable of anything but feeling emotion_.

Clint called someone and said something. A crowded, local rural bus, terminating in Cancún, pulled in. Clint nudged her. She paid and stumbled forward. It was full of people and chickens, but someone had just gotten off from the back. Clint pushed her gently into the bench. She sank down and stared out the window.

The Natasha-bot stopped working. The original Natasha resumed operations. It was unfortunate for all concerned.

_You could have saved her. You failed. You let the Red Room win._

She leaned her head against the window. She watched, without seeing, as the trees and farms went by in the short tropical dusk.

_I could not force her into anything_.

_She would have forgiven you, after you fixed her. She would have thanked you. You could have saved her._

_There is no salvation that comes from being held down and forcibly injected._

_No? And what did you do to those four girls in the Red Room, when you broke in all those years ago?_

_They could not choose. Tonya chose._

_You’re alone now._

_I was always alone._

The bus grew quieter. The children and the chickens settled down to drowse.

It replayed in her head. She could have stopped Tonya. She could have caught her before she’d gone over the edge.

She should have stopped her.

_The only thing I could give her was a choice_.

_You had a chance. And you lost it._

The memories replayed, of fighting and killing the other girl. _The Red Room killed her when they drugged her and broke her brain. I just didn’t force her to keep her body alive._

_You failed her._

_I let her choose._

“Hey.”

Someone else was talking to her. Clint. He hadn’t spoken since… the roof. Since Tonya.

Had he been right? Was he— would he walk, over this?

She couldn’t compromise her choice, not even for him. But she wanted, desperately, not to lose him.

_That’s his choice._

She ignored him. Time passed, she didn't know how much.

“Nat.”

The pattern on the seat back kaleidoscoped in front of her. A trick of the dim light.

“Look. I don’t… understand, okay? But—“

“Stop,” she whispered. 

He stopped.

Miles down the road, they bounced through a series of wash-outs in the road, jarring her from her reverie. Blindly, she grabbed Clint’s hand, his wrist, resting between their thighs, and held onto it tightly. Some part of her pointed out that she was probably hurting him, but the message didn’t get through. He rearranged his fingers, but he didn’t try to pull away.

_You’re weak_.

She ignored that voice. It didn’t know what it was talking about. The bus bounced down the road, and she tried desperately to hold onto a live person, not a dead one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: in this chapter, a character who has suffered from brainwashing commits suicide, and people in a position to prevent it do not do so. A character references past torture and murder, including where one character is forced to kill another.


	5. With Two Cats In The Yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter contains on-screen violence and torture, and cruelty to homeless people. This chapter also references police brutality, homophobia, racism, sexual harassment/assault, domestic violence, and child abuse, including rape/sexual abuse of minors.

_I'll light the fire, you place the flowers  
In the vase that you bought today._

_Staring at the fire for hours and hours_  
 _While I listen to you play your love songs_  
 _All night long for me, only for me._

_Come to me now, and rest your head  
For just five minutes, everything is done._

_Such a cozy room, the windows are illuminated_  
 _By the evening sunshine through themselves_  
 _Fiery gems for you, only for you._

_Our house is a very, very, very fine house_  
 _With two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard,_  
 _Now everything is easy 'cause of you._

_La la, la la la la la, la la la la, la la la la la, la la la la, la la la, la la la la, la la la la, la la, la la la la la, la la la la, la la la la la, la-la-la la, la la la..._

_Our house is a very very very fine house_  
 _With two cats in the yard, life used to be so hard,_  
 _Now everything is easy 'cause of you._

_I'll light the fire, while you place the flowers  
In the vase that you bought today._

*

Clint was nearly climbing walls by the time Coulson called. “You have a mission, sir?”

“Depends. How are you feeling? If you say ‘fine,’ I’ll know you’re lying, because if you really felt fine, you’d be back here being a pest.”

Clint smiled, and lifted the coffee pot to his lips. “Aw, sir, it sounds like you miss me.”

“Barton.”

“The limp’s almost gone, and the toxin's getting better.” The night sweats were obnoxious, but not debilitating. “How are you feeling?”

Coulson hesitated. “I’ve been worse.”

“I know, I was there.”

“I’m pulling desk duty at the moment. Taking over some of Agent Robinson’s responsibilities as he sorts out what Broad left us.”

“But you have a mission for me.”

“I do. Long-term.”

“When’s the briefing?”

“Tomorrow in Manhattan. If you’re up to it.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I think I can make it.”

“Good. I’ll see you at four.”

Coulson hadn't said if he'd have a partner. He didn't know what Natasha had done after Cancún. He hadn’t talked to her since their debrief. He’d almost called, a couple of times, but he wasn’t sure what he would say.

He hadn't done his leg any favors with that running leap in Cancún, and by the time he got to HQ, it was hard to hide his limp. He narrowed his eyes and contemplated the elevator buttons for a moment before going up, not down. _Was_ Agent Broad being held here? Maybe Clint could find out after the briefing. And if not, send him a “sorry about your incarceration” card... covered with acid. And full of flesh-eating spiders. No, the acid might kill the spiders. Booby-trapped with a sharp little spike coated in H.Y.D.R.A.’s toxin.

Coulson looked up when the door opened. He still looked bad-- pale, dark circles under his eyes, and he'd noticeably lost weight. Understandable, if the lingering side effects of the toxin and the antidote were making him as sick as Clint.

And Natasha was there, signing something. She looked fine, but that wasn't informative. The only times he'd seen her _not_ look fine, she'd been seriously injured or losing her mind. “Coulson didn't make you sign your soul away when you joined?”

She capped the pen. “I had Tonya buried. S.H.I.E.L.D. retrieved the body. This is the reimbursement.”

He sat down. “Where?”

“Missouri. They brought her to Leonard Wood.”

Before he could figure out what to say, Coulson spoke. “This is David Pendrist, president of a Chicagoland bank. We think he’s laundering money for some countries and groups that usually cause us trouble, making an end run around U.S. and E.U. sanctions. You're going to set up a sting. Once he takes the bait, we'll have him and his clients. If he doesn't take it, your fallback plan is to shut him down.”

“How?” Nat’s voice was flat.

“By any quiet means that don’t involve innocents.”

Clint sometimes wondered how Coulson felt being the one who aimed the gun. He didn't think Coulson had ever assassinated anyone. Did he see a difference between doing it himself and ordering someone else to do it? “What’s our cover?”

“Agent Romanoff, you have a job at the bank. You may need a while to get Pendrist's attention. Clint, you’re going to be Natasha’s husband, temporarily unemployed. She'll run point with Pendrist, but you'll be her backup.”

Clint blinked.

“Your covers will be more elaborate than usual-- more than what you're used to, Clint. We'll give you the outline; it's up to you to fill in the details.” He slid two file folders across the table. “This is a list of Pendrist's known associates...”

*

S.H.I.E.L.D. sent them to Naperville via a New England “vacation,” to give Logistics time to prep the house, and to let Clint and Natasha get used to their covers. She'd never felt this disoriented about a cover story before. She was used to sinking deeply into her assumed identity-- but now she was with Clint, who actually knew Natasha.

She felt raw, after Frankfurt and Tonya. She wanted an in-and-out job, without being exposed to the extended scrutiny of another person. Clint already knew her vulnerabilities. That meant she didn't have to worry about accidentally exposing them, but it also meant he knew where to look.

They were silent for a good hour as Clint concentrated on the city traffic. She stared out the window, wanting to talk, not knowing what to say.

Finally she went with, “Say something.”

He was quiet for so long, she thought he might be giving her the silent treatment. “I don't agree with what you did.”

“I'd noticed.”

“But I-- understand that I don't understand, and that I... I'll never see it your way.”

A bit of tightness eased in her mind. “Do you think I—“

Clint waited.

 _Why do you care so much, Romanoff?_ “Do you think I did wrong.” She glanced sideways at him. _Wrongdoing_ was a laughable concept in their line of work. And yet—

He sighed softly. “I think...” He paused. “I think I'm never going to understand what she was fighting.”

“Thank God for that,” she muttered. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed.

It wouldn’t stop _her_ from wondering if she’d done wrong— from dreaming about Tonya’s fingers slipping from her hand, which had never even happened— but— she was glad he hadn’t said _Yes._

They worked out details of their cover story, using the questions I.C.E. asked of couples applying for a green card as a guide. Then they discussed how to get Pendrist to take the bait.

“There’s not much for me to _do_ on this mission,” he muttered.

“There’s not supposed to be. You’re sick. I need backup. It’s a good match.”

“I’m not _sick_.”

She felt like rolling her eyes, but she didn't. Clint wasn’t usually like this; it was really bothering him. “Were you doing anything interesting on medical leave?”

“No.”

She smiled. “Then this will be less boring. I promise.”

He eyed her. “Am I going to regret your making that promise?”

She smiled.

When they arrived, they scanned the area before getting out. Cottages clustered around a lake, backed by trees just beginning to turn colors. A great place for trouble, or for a nice, quiet assassination. They weren’t expecting either. People usually didn’t.

“Hi, we’re the Saunders,” Clint-- Craig-- told the sleepy desk clerk. “We have a reservation.” His Midwestern accent was stronger than usual.

“Three nights?”

“Yes.”

“I just need the credit card you made the reservation with.” She took the card S.H.I.E.L.D. had gotten for Craig. “Breakfast is served in the dining room beginning at seven, then lunch starts at noon.” The clerk handed them the keys and tried to look cheerful and welcoming, but mostly looked like she wanted to go back to sleep. “If you need anything at all, just call the front desk and we’ll be happy to assist you.”

“Great, thanks.”

Natasha pulled the car around to their cottage while Clint checked it out. She checked it anyway when she came in with the bags: a living room and kitchenette, a bedroom, a bathroom with-- She pointed to the bathtub. “Mine.”

Clint turned to look. “Suit yourself, Ariel.”

“Who’s Ariel?”

“The Little Mermaid.”

“Who?”

“Your pop culture education is still much lacking, Padawan.”

“No, I know this one.” She frowned, remembering an exhibit at a park in Copenhagen. “She gives up her voice to gain legs and seduce a prince, even though she feels like she’s walking on knives the whole time. He marries someone else, dooming her to disintegrate into sea foam. Unless she murders him. Which she inexplicably decides not to.” She remembered the sea foam because her mark’s blood had run out over the cast iron depiction. “Then she turns into a cloud.”

“That is not how I remember it going.”

“Why do _you_ know it?”

Clint hesitated. “I was in a hospital, and there was a kid in the other bed— real sick, don’t know what she had. Only one TV, and she kept watching all these Disney movies. Didn’t have the heart to— didn’t care enough to tell her to change it.”

There was something there that he wasn’t… “What happened to the kid?”

“Don’t know. Ran away in the middle of the night.” He glanced over. “Couldn’t pay my bill. Thought the police were after me.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen.” His expression closed up.

She dropped it. “I’m going to pretend to be a normal person and get eight hours of sleep.”

“I‘m gonna look outside first.”

She put a gun under the pillow and a knife under the mattress. When Clint returned, he put his bow and quiver under the bed and another pistol under _his_ pillow. She remembered the last time they'd shared a real bed, not a cot or the floor-- in North Carolina, on the Coleman mission. It was no longer such a strange thing that it would keep her awake, not after she'd held him through fever and he'd held her through hallucinations. “Clint.”

“Mmm.” He sounded sleepy.

“Where do you think Coulson got those boxers?”

“Are you _trying_ to give me nightmares?”

*

She woke in dim light. The bed was empty; she should have noticed Clint getting up. There was a note on the table: _Gone for food at 6:30._

She was supposed to be cultivating the role of a soft, self-indulgent suburbanite, well enough to sink into it for months, wasn't she? With that excuse, she filled the tub until she could submerge. The hot water felt _fantastic_. She was beginning to realize that she liked being warm. She liked things that felt good, and she liked finding out what she did and did not like. It felt forbidden, to have any sort of physical pleasure strictly for herself, not for any mission or mark. But she was getting over that.

Clint returned; the smell of coffee lured her out. He was sitting at the table with the pot of coffee, a bag of bagels, and a box of donuts. Fortunately, he wasn't drinking out of the pot. “You look… happy.”

“Mmm.” She took the other chair, and didn’t explain. ‘I was finding myself’ was a ridiculous phrase.

Clint dunked another donut in his coffee. “So what do normal couples do?”

Did he realize how revealing that statement was? He didn't have to tell her what his childhood had been like for her to guess, but he didn't usually allude to it. “On vacation? Relax. Fight. Try to convince themselves they’re having a great time.”

“We go to the nearest archery range, I got the relaxing down pat.”

“And I can find some unsuspecting people to practice my hand-to-hand skills on. We’d blend right in.”

He smirked. “You wanna go for a walk? Around the lake?”

She finished eating and put on Nancy Saunders’s clothes. They set off at a leisurely pace that didn’t take long to drive her mad. She scoped the place as they walked and knew Clint was doing the same.

Clint took her hand. She felt the callouses on his fingertips against the back of her hand. “So, Mrs. Saunders, are you sufficiently relaxed?”

The contact felt odd, but less odd than it would with anyone else, and not actually _bad._ “Oh, yeah, this is great.”

“Okay, step two. What are we supposed to be fighting about?”

“Money. Affairs. Moving. Are we going to have kids? I want a dog. Why did we spend Thanksgiving _and_ Christmas with your family last year?”

“You’re... good at this.”

“I watch people.” She got them into her head, so she could pull pieces of them out again when necessary.

“I think I’d be the world’s least convincing adulterer.”

“Then that’s off the table.” She could be a very convincing adulterer— she’d helped a lot of men cheat on their wives— but there was no reason to bring in that complication.

“Money. I’m unemployed. I'm worried about the gap in my resumé. And I'm worried about us relying on your salary.”

“What gap? You just left last week.”

“To move to another state with nothing lined up!”

She pouted. “But _sweetheart_ , I thought you were _happy_ for me.”

They continued in this vein, Clint falling easily into the role. He was better at it than she’d expected, and picked up fast. They finished “fighting” and moved on to “reconciling.” _I can’t believe people do this for real_. Her life was _not ideal_ , in many ways, and yet in many ways she found it less horrifying than the idea of a stilted, stultifying, sterile, monotonous life in the suburbs. Her life at least had the benefit of a... predictable unpredictability. Normality, on the other hand, was outside of her experience.

“You need a story to explain your leg.”

“What?” Clint looked down.

“You’ve been limping for the last quarter mile.”

His hand tightened briefly on hers. Not affection, and not deliberate. “Tipped the fridge on myself as we were packing.”

There was a bench halfway around the lake. He didn’t even complain when she sat down, or protest that he was fine.

“D’you remember our first date?” Clint— Craig— asked after a minute.

“The state fair. You bought us cotton candy and we rode the Tilt-a-Whirl three times in a row and then I threw up. I was surprised you wanted to go on a second date.”

“But you looked cute, puking up rainbow-colored—“ He stopped, and grimaced. “We should stop talking about throwing up. Nice weather, isn’t it?”

“Not a cloud in the sky.”

They kept walking. He started to limp again. “You can lean on me.”

“I’m fine.”

She made an exasperated noise. “You don’t have to pretend with me—“

“Right, because _you_ never do.”

That shut her up.

For lunch, they drove into a little village that she thought she was supposed to describe as “quaint,” full of old buildings and small shops. After lunch, they walked— slowly— up the main street. Clint pretended to be the bored husband following his wife into every antique shop in the town. She didn’t think he had to pretend very hard. Then they drove to the shore and sat on a blanket, watching the ocean. Nancy settled against Craig’s shoulder. Natasha did enjoy this. There was a certain peace in the methodical violence of the water on the rocks, a rhythm to the destruction, and the surety that this would be the order of things for hundreds of years. Long after she was dead, buried in an unmarked grave or just dumped—

She thought of Tonya's grave-- not unmarked, but essentially meaningless. _What the hell was I playing at?_

For all their expensive training, the Red Room had discarded them as trash the moment they were useless. Tonya’s name had been a convenience to them, easier to say than a number, and her body just another tool. Her mind, too. Once the pulse faded, the name was worthless, and the body and mind just rotting meat.

It wasn’t that Natasha really felt that different about her own body. Dead was dead. But Tonya was worth remembering, and Natasha had done that.

 _I was trying to give her herself back_.

_That would work better if she were still alive. The Red Room killed her long before Mexico._

_Really? Were you also dead, before Amsterdam?_

Craig put his arm around his wife, maybe because she’d shivered. She rested against him, and felt his breathing slow and his body settle into stillness. She knew without having to look at him that this was Clint, not Craig. Craig glanced; Clint watched.

She lost track of time, and didn’t care. Finally Clint— Craig— moved, and stretched. “Mmm.”

“You ready to go?”

“It’s getting chilly up here. And I haven’t had coffee since lunch.”

The first half of that was Craig, the second definitely Clint. “You’re such an addict.”

They walked back to the car. “There are worse addictions.”

They ate dinner at the resort’s pricey dining room, and at the waiter’s suggestion, took back a dessert to share. Natasha wasn't interested, but Clint settled on the couch, and dug in. “So what else do normal people do?” he asked around a mouthful of cake.

She looked out the window and saw the flicker of blue light in the nearby cottages. “They watch terrible television.” She pulled the blinds and joined him on the couch. He grabbed the remote from the end table, and started channel-surfing. “No.” _Flicker._ “No.” _Flicker._ “No.” _Flicker._ “ _Hell_ no.”

“But I love wrestling.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Barton.”

“True. Got my share of men in tight uniforms when I was in the circus.” He changed the channel. “Here. Nice and relaxing.”

“This is a documentary about man-eating crocodiles.”

“Like I said.”

“I wasn’t disagreeing.” She leaned against Clint’s side, just like a real wife might do. “Is… this okay?”

“Anything for you, darling.”

She tilted her head back so she could almost see his face. “Clint.”

He looked over, and his face was untroubled. “Yeah.”

He got bored with the man-eating crocodiles and put on something about the mating habits of insects. “This is pretty good, want any?” He waved the loaded fork at her.

“Sharing a fork? Really?”

“There’s another in the—“

She didn’t want to get up. She took the fork. “Not bad.”

“You want more?”

“No, finish it.” She let her eyes close. Being Nancy wasn’t all bad.

Clint put the plate down. His hand ended up near the nape of her neck, at her hairline. Idly, he ran his short fingernails through her hair a few times. “Is this—“

“Yes.” She felt triumphant, that she could relax into this without automatically flashing back to Ivan. _I got something back for myself, you fucking bastard._

“Na-- Nan?”

She’d tensed up. _Two steps forward, one step back?_

 _I like the sound of ‘you fucking bastard’ better_.

“It’s fine.” She relaxed again. It crossed her mind that Clint could easily snap her neck from this position, before she could stop him. There were some ways of viewing the world that could never be unlearned— that _should_ never be unlearned. But she didn’t move a muscle, because there were also reactions that could be chosen.

 _This is actually one of the least shitty cover stories I’ve ever used_. Nancy got to enjoy this--

No. Wait.

 _Who am I? Right now?_ She felt a blinding wave of panic as Nancy and Natasha merged, the boundaries indistinguishable, because Nancy was enjoying this.

No. That wasn’t it. It was because _Natasha_ was enjoying this.

“I, I can’t, you’ll— they’ll— hurt me for this—“ She sat up and nearly tumbled off the couch.

“Nat?” Clint was staring at her, his hands— out, because he’d taken them off of her even before she’d sat up. She felt a strong wave of gratitude, affection— _no, you can’t have affection_ — and then deep shame, that she’d let enough slip that he thought— he knew— he thought it was necessary. Or _kind_.

“I have to— I’ll be back.” She tripped over the chair in her haste to get out.

The cold night air gave her energy. She headed for the lake, trying to leave everything else behind her. She hadn’t even stopped for shoes. The ground was cold and prickly against her feet. It was another thing to focus on, another fact, instead of—

She reached the lake shore too soon. She jogged for a little bit, like Nancy rather than a world-class athlete and assassin, and then slowed, the soil damp and gritty under her feet.

Finally she sat down with her back to a tree, breathed, and examined this head-on.

Her feet were cold, like in Alabama, when she’d let Clint touch her for, really, the first time. She hadn't been looking for enjoyment, then, but it had still mattered. Even now, she didn't take something like that for granted, and to Natalia, it had been revelatory to let someone touch her without expecting pain or manipulation. And it had been a tick in the “Clint Barton is trustworthy” column.

_I was going to have sex with an agent I barely knew. How can this possibly be worse?_

… _Because this matters._ Sex, she’d done that a lot. It had never been very intimate to her. But this?

She didn't understand this, and she’d had it beaten into her that it was wrong. _Don’t get attached. Your body is only a tool_. She didn’t even have the excuse from Frankfurt, of being sick and vulnerable. This was just— _her_.

She straightened up. It was cold, and she felt foolish for her hasty exit. _But_ _I want this, and the Red Room doesn’t get a say._

She headed back, focusing, hard, on keeping shame at bay for her earlier reaction. _I’m allowed to let this matter. No one else gets a vote._

The cottage was dark when she got back, feeling very tired and foolish. She wasn’t used to having emotions that demanded attention, and it was exhausting. She hesitated inside the front door.

“Here.” Clint's voice was rough. He was slumped against the side of the couch, curled in on himself. As she got closer, she could see that he was shaking and sweating. She sat down next to him, put her hand out, and hesitated. Then, deliberately, she put her hand on his back. She knew what it was like to shudder as your body betrayed you.

She stroked up and down his back and his side a few times, waiting for the world to end. It didn't. “Do you want something for the pain?”

“No.” His voice was low and raw.

She hesitated. “Should I go?”

“No.” He reached around and tucked his hand over hers, just like he had in North Carolina. “Please stay.”

 _How come_ he _knows how to talk about what he wants?_

His tremors started to ease. “Just like old times, huh?”

“If you nearly die on me again, I’ll kill you.”

He made a quiet _huffing_ sound. “Thanks. That’s reassuring.”

“Any time.” She waited for him to let go of her hand. She wasn't uncomfortable-- and wasn't that novel-- but she didn’t know the rules, the cues.

“Hot,” he muttered, tumbling ungracefully off the couch. He went into the bathroom; when he came out with damp hair and skin, he looked a little better. “I'm going to sleep while I can.”

She followed him into the bedroom, turned her back, and put on Nancy's pajamas. When she turned around, he looked up at her in the dim light. “Earlier—“

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you’re ‘fine,’ but are you all right?”

She did him the courtesy of actually considering the question. “Yes. I am.”

He nodded, but continued to watch her.

“It’s— just—“ There were a lot of things she could say here, but she didn’t need to say all of them— and she wouldn’t, even to Clint. “Normal things aren’t… easy for me.”

“Fair enough.” He sank into the pillows. She went into the bathroom.

When she climbed into bed a few minutes later, he opened his eyes. “Earlier, you said--” He looked up at her. “I wish I could promise that I’ll never hurt you, but best I can say is, there's not much in the world I want _less_ , than to hurt you. But we both know how much our wishes matter.”

She laughed, and couldn’t figure out if there was any real mirth in it. “Thanks.”

*

He woke up feeling better than he had the night before. It wasn’t much, but he would take it. Each episode left him feeling like a wrung-out towel, but they were getting farther and farther apart.

He got up cautiously— leg was good for now— and went into the other room. Nat was eating day-old donuts and drinking fresh coffee. He helped himself and sat down, trying to keep an eye on her without being obvious about it.

This was _weird_. He wasn’t used to pretending to be another person so thoroughly, and he wasn’t used to doing it with the person who, arguably, knew the real him better than anyone else on the planet.

Arguably. It could be worse.

“What could be worse?”

He’d said that out loud. Oops. “This mission. If I were pretending to be Coulson’s husband instead of yours.”

She raised her eyebrows and looked like she was picking from a bunch of different possible responses. Finally she said, “Are you going to be able to do this?”

He reached across her for a donut. “I’m a big boy, Nat, I got my grown-up undies on, I’ll be fine.”

“I have had way too many workplace conversations about other people’s underwear lately.”

“You started some of them.”

She shrugged.

“Are we good?” he asked after a minute.

“Yes.”

“Would you tell me if we weren’t?”

The corners of her mouth curved up. “Yes.”

He had another cup of coffee, trying to keep Nat from seeing how bad he still felt. He didn't need her to pity him, or baby him. When he heard the rain beating down hard on the roof, keeping them inside, it was a welcome sound.

He sprawled across the couch, found something not distracting on the TV, and zoned out. Nat settled on the other end with a book. They spent most of the morning that way. He let the rain lull him into drowsiness. He knew how to listen, when he needed to, but he didn’t often _listen_. Not like he watched.

By early afternoon, his stomach was growling. Nat stretched with a grace that Nancy Saunders would never know, put down her book, and went out for lunch. She came back with cold sandwiches— a lot of cold sandwiches. He looked at her as she put the bag on the table, but her face was neutral.

He was perfectly capable of going without food. He just liked big meals. You never knew when the next one would be.

After he impersonated a sandwich-eating anaconda, he settled back on the couch. The rain was letting up. “What now? See a movie? Buy matching shirts that say ‘I Went To Massachusetts And I Caught Crabs’? Fight about our mortgage?”

She gave him a serious look, which was uncalled for. He could repeat the crabs joke if need be. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

“Wh—“ Any impulse to joke vanished. He _hated_ that he understood how she could think— After the Athens mission— “ _Yes_.”

 _This conversation is going to go someplace_ awful.

“We need to try that.”

He'd thought about it, of course. But it was like having to go off a high-dive into a possibly shark-infested swimming pool. You had no choice, but you still didn’t want to jump. “Fine.” He stayed exactly where he was, though, and stared at her.

She raised her eyebrows.

He sighed, pulled himself into a sitting position, then got to his feet. But he didn’t go any closer. “We should talk about boundaries.”

“Boundaries?”

“Yeah. Yours, specifically. What are you, I mean, what’s okay, what’s... not.”

She frowned. He felt sick. Had this never come up for her before? Ever? Or was she just so used to throwing everything into her cover stories? That wasn’t any _better_.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Whatever, it’s fine.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. _I’m not cut out for this._ Why couldn’t it have been a simple shooting? Or, hell, a simple seduction? He’d take that, right now. “Nat.” He ran his palms over his face, as if he could wipe all this away. “Last night you ran out because I touched your neck. And that’s _fine_ , but I _need to know_. I-- I _like_ our partnership. I don't want this mission to hurt it. Or either of us. So do me a favor, take two minutes, and think through that to make sure it’s actually true.”

She gave him a long, unreadable look. Then she looked away. After fifty seconds, she shrugged. “It’s not…”

He watched her.

A wintry smile cracked across her face. “It’s not usually relevant to my work.”

_God—_

He just waited. Finally she said, “Don’t startle me. Touching's okay, but don’t grab me from behind. Don’t— you know—“ She gestured to the top of her head.

He nodded once, remembering the sick anger he’d felt when she’d told him about that one.

“What about you?”

“… me?”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Yes, you.”

“Uh.”

“Remember everything you just said?”

 _Don’t pretend to be the kind of wife who hits her husband, and we’ll be fine._ “Don’t— yank on my arms, or my wrists— Unless I know it’s comin’.”

“I won’t.”

He couldn't delay any longer. He took two steps towards her, moving slowly so she could predict everything. He put one careful hand on her hip, and the other at the nape of her neck, _not_ any higher than her hairline; she wrapped her arms around his neck, and stretched up, as he brought his lips down to meet hers.

They managed not to bump noses. But it was _weird_ , catching her lip between his, with gentle pressure, and feeling her doing the same. Not precisely bad— not _precisely_ — his mind wanted to wander, but he forced himself to pay attention. There were so many ways this could go wrong.

If he was being completely honest with himself, he didn't like the kiss, but he liked the proximity. _I’ll figure out how screwed up that is later._ _Just pretend she’s Bo— J— huh_. Was he still on speaking terms with anyone he’d ever kissed in his adult life?

Nat’s hands loosened on his neck. He let go of her immediately.

“Try not to drop me like a hot potato,” she said drily.

“Sorry. That was... weird.”

“… yeah,” she admitted after a minute. “It was.”

“Are we… good?”

“You need to be able to do that without looking like it’s new or awkward to you.”

It made his skin crawl, how she talked so dispassionately about using her body for a cover. He knew she’d done it, he’d seen her do it, but this was a much, much closer look. “Yeah. I know. Here—“ He stepped closer to her again, and leaned down for a second try. This time it lacked the awkwardness of novelty. “Better?”

Natasha tilted her head, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Fighting about the mortgage now?”

The rain tapered off. They went back to the dining room for dinner. Nat did something to her makeup, then stepped out of the bathroom in a fancy dress, the straps over her shoulders. “Zip me up?”

He obliged, sliding the zipper slowly up so it didn’t catch on her skin. He knew she could do this herself. Was this an attempt to get him into his role? Or did she just not want to contort herself to make the reach?

“What’s our favorite sex position?” she asked over her shoulder.

He was too good at what he did for his hands to falter. “I don’t care, pick something.”

“Give me a list of options.”

His eyes narrowed, and he stepped back. “ _No one_ is going to ask us that, Natasha. So what are you trying to do? Figure out my sexual history through some weird and intrusive process? ‘Cause it’s none of your damn business.”

She’d turned around at his first words. Now she folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not doing this because I get off on watching you squirm, Clint. We’re pretending to be married, you can’t be squeamish about the idea of sex. You need to be able to convincingly act like we're sexually intimate. You need to be able to touch me.”

After a moment he said, “You know, I'm not buying that explanation.”

Her eyes narrowed. “The Red Room—“ Her voice was low and harsh— “ _taught_ me to have sex and then erased about half of those memories.”

This wasn’t surprising, but it still sickened him.

“My standards for a normal sex life are _pretty damn low_ , Barton. As long as you’ve never hurt anyone, I couldn’t give less of a shit about who you have-- or haven’t-- fucked. I don't _care_ about your sexual history.”

He had no idea what to say. He didn’t bother correcting the assumption she was obviously making. “… thanks.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Her voice was cold.

“I _know_ you don’t want to be pitied,” he snapped. “But I’m not going to pretend that shit’s okay just because you’re afraid of—!”

“Yeah? You think that's helpful? Is it helpful,” her voice rose over his, “for me to be _horrified_ by what happened to you as a kid? By every time your—“

“Stop.” His rough voice didn’t seem to be his. “Let’s… stop.”

Silence.

“I’m—“

“Let's just move on.”

She turned away. “I’m ready.”

Dinner was tense. _We don’t even have to practice fighting._ He gave up after his second glass of wine when he realized it wasn’t helping him relax at all. With the toxin still wreaking havoc with his stomach, he didn’t have much of an appetite. Nat left her food similarly unfinished. They boxed it up and walked back to the cabin.

“Spoons,” he said as they crossed the lawn.

In his peripheral vision, he saw her looking at him.

“The answer. To your question.”

“I know.”

“Okay.”

*

The next morning, they checked out and hit the road.

It was a quiet trip. He didn’t know how much of that was because of the night before, and he didn’t have the energy to find out. He just drove, watching the scenery slide by along the side of the highway.

They made the Philly S.H.I.E.L.D. base by late morning, picking up two more suitcases, some boxes, and a laundry basket of odds and ends. Then they got moving again.

They rode in silence until the other side of Toledo. “What was our second date?”

“Visiting the St. Louis Arch and making out in the cars on the way up.”

She glanced over and raised a delicate eyebrow. “Is that something you actually did?”

“No.” Barney had, when the circus had visited St. Louis for three nights. He'd complained about how short the ride was, for the money, and how there were rangers at the top so you couldn't do anything up there either. Then he'd complained about the rash he'd gotten on his butt when he and the girl had disappeared into some bushes along the river. Clint himself hadn't done too much with girls, in the circus. Technically, he'd lost his virginity to-- with-- one in the back of their station wagon, but the less said about that, the better for all concerned.

They switched drivers. He woke up when Nat pulled off halfway through Indiana to get coffee. His leg ached— it was worse at night, and sitting in the same position all day hadn’t helped— so he stayed where he was. Nat came back with one cup. They got back on the highway. He stared at her, plaintively, until she sighed and handed her cup over.

“Juice in my veins,” he muttered, and took a long swallow.

“You could have _asked_.”

“But this way’s more fun.” He replaced the cup in the center console.

Traffic started to pick up as they got close to the Illinois border. “Nan, you didn’t signal long enough before changing lanes.”

Her look said, _I’ve killed better men than you for less than that._ He smiled back cheerfully. She picked up the coffee and drained it in four long swallows, replacing the empty cup with a vicious _thock_. He sighed, and settled farther down in the seat.

It was night by the time they pulled up to a small two-story house in the western suburbs. “Home, sweet home,” he murmured.

The house had a ridiculous amount of stuff inside. How did real people accumulate all this? He checked the basement and the first floor while Nat swept the garage and upstairs. It was all clean. There were even more boxes in the basement. His, presumably-- they said TOOLS, and if he and Nat were going for inconspicuous, playing up gender stereotypes would help.

He reached the top of the stairs as Nat came in from the breezeway with the suitcases. “Clear. I pulled the car in.”

He nodded, and slipped out behind her.

“I can get it!” she called.

He ignored her, grabbed as many boxes as he could carry, dumped them in the kitchen, and turned around for more.

“I can get the rest of the stuff. You’re limping.”

“Congratulations on your keen powers of observation.”

He got the rest in one trip. Nat had already dragged the other stuff into the dining room. She leaned against the counter, looking tired, and he couldn’t tell who was tired— Nancy, Natasha, or both. “Leave the unpacking until tomorrow?”

He nodded, grabbed the suitcase of weapons, and headed upstairs, stumbling at the top when his leg protested.

Natasha didn’t say anything as she passed him leaning against the wall, but she Looked. He ignored her and the throb in his thigh and carried the suitcase the rest of the way into the bedroom, then sunk down on the bed and unzipped the suitcase. “What, they didn’t sort this into His and Hers for us?”

“The explosives are m—“

“Not a _chance_ , Romanoff.” His bow and quiver were in the duffle. He put a pistol under his pillow, another in the bathroom, and decided he’d deal with the downstairs tomorrow. He eyed the distance to the bathroom. Even that wasn’t worth the bother. He stripped down to his boxers, and sprawled out on the mattress. This was, what, the fourth night they'd spent together? He'd expected it to be weird, but it wasn't, really-- they were both well-trained enough to stay on their own sides. The weirdest part was actually not setting a watch.

But it could still get weird. He didn't look forward to waking up hard and having to convince her that it was a natural consequence of having a functional dick, not anything to do with her. Maybe she wouldn't notice. Maybe he would somehow manage to wake up first every single time Little Clint needed attention. Maybe they could just... not talk about it. Ever. He preferred to avoid workplace conversations about his dick, and he didn't want her to think he was secretly harboring fantasies about her. He had a feeling this mission would cause enough problems as it was.

The mattress was soft and squishy, and put him to sleep in about two minutes.

*

In the morning, he faced a crisis of epic proportions.

He stared at the ceiling. “We don’t have any coffee.”

Nat shifted beside him. “Are you _trying_ to make Craig Saunders obnoxious?”

“No, this is my natural, charming personality.”

“I have seen you go without coffee.”

He tried to think of a snappy comeback, but he was too uncaffeinated. “I haven’t been sleeping so great, since Munich.” Coffee was the next best thing after sleep.

She rolled over and sit up. “We need food anyway.”

“Na—Nancy, I can—“

“Yes, darling, I know you can.”

It was bizarre, having an argument-- a pre-argument-- through other people's mouths. He sat up to continue, and then gagged. _I hate this_. He put his head on his hands and took deep breaths until he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to dry-heave on the carpet.

Nat came out of the bathroom, dressed. “Hey.”

“Yeah.” He sat up all the way.

“Are you—“

“Yes.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“You were going to ask if I was fine. I’m fine.”

She leaned against the door frame. “You’re not and we both know it. Cut the crap. This is a mission _._ If you keep lying to me about your status, you’re going to screw something up.”

He stared at her stonily, not wanting to admit she was right.

“Coulson gave you this mission as light duty. You’re supposed to be recovering. Knock it off with this macho, stoic ‘I have to do everything’ shit.”

“You really think I'm macho?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, her look indicating neither amusement nor distraction.

He sighed. “I had a map, for pneumonia. Knew what was going to happen, how long it would take to get better. This, I got no map.”

Her expression softened a little. “Even if you did, it wouldn’t have a region called ‘Make an idiot out of yourself for no good reason.’”

“Lo, though I walk through the valley of idiocy, I shall fear no good sense.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Nausea’s worse in the morning. Leg’s worse at night. Shakes and pain can happen any time.”

“And right now it’s the nausea?”

“Yeah.”

Her expression said, _Was that so hard_. “I’ll pick up some, uh, crackers.”

He bit back saying he didn’t need anything special. “And _coffee_.”

“We passed a grocery store nearby last night. I’ll be back soon.”

By the time she was back, he'd showered off the sour sweat, shaved, dressed and stashed the rest of the weapons. He helped her unload the groceries from the cloth bags, which they apparently owned now.

He picked up a box of-- “‘Multigrain reduced fat hearty wheat crackers’? That's five more words than you need to call something _food_.”

“I’m watching my waistline, darling. And you _know_ the doctor told you to eat more whole grains.”

Clint leaned against the wall, laughing. They were living in a world where Nat was watching her waistline, and his conversations with his doctor involved 'eat more whole grains' rather than 'how's the stab wound healing?' Right.

Nat watched him with tolerant amusement, and handed him a box of normal crackers. “Here. Guess what else we didn’t have?”

“What?”

“A coffee _maker_.” She pulled out a larger box and tossed it to him.

He caught it, then cradled it reverently. “Manna from heaven.”

“What does that— never mind.”

Clint eyed the remaining bags with trepidation, full of things like tomato juice and low-fat yogurt. “There’s no steak in there, is there. Or hamburger. Or anything of substance.”

“Red meat’s bad for you,” Nancy said primly.

_No one ever said being a spy was easy._

When the coffee was done, all was temporarily right with the world-- though it would have been righter if he hadn’t been caffeine-dependent as a result of getting poisoned. He poured himself a cup. “Got the house set up, I’ll give you the tour. This house has terrible defensibility. Sight lines aren’t worth anything.”

“I don’t think S.H.I.E.L.D. took that into account when they picked this place.”

“Yeah, well, they should've--”

Footsteps on the porch, then a knock on the front door.

They looked at each other. Nancy settled over her face like a nervous, insecure mask. He went to the door and checked the peephole.

Two middle-aged men were standing on the porch, casually dressed, looking completely normal. That didn’t mean much. He undid the lock and opened the door.

“Hi!” The man on Clint’s right held out his hand. He was about Clint’s height, thin, with light blonde hair greying at the temples, and wire-framed rectangular glasses. “I’m Rob, this is my husband, Manuel. We live next door.”

“Oh, uh, hi,” Clint— Craig— said. He shook Rob’s hand, careful to keep his grip light. “I’m Craig Saunders. This is my wife, Nancy.” He opened the door wider so Nat— _Nancy_ — could step around him, then shook Manuel’s hand. Manuel was shorter and more compact, with close-cropped dark hair, a crooked nose, and a gentle smile. He had crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and deep lines around his mouth; when he smiled, it became apparent that they were not from frowning. He reminded Clint of Coulson.

“Please, come in.” Nancy's accent was perfect.

Craig stepped back and let the two into the foyer. “Sorry about the mess. We don’t have much furniture yet.” Clint thought they had _plenty_ of furniture, but his standards were atypical.

“We saw the truck there yesterday and then saw you guys pull in last night,” Rob said. “Did you have to come far?”

“From St. Louis.”

“We wanted to bring you a bite to eat.” Manuel held out a covered dish with an index card on top.

Nancy reached out and took it by the handles. “Oh, thank you so much! That was so kind of you.”

“It’s a casserole. You can keep it in the refrigerator until you’re ready to eat it, and then cook it at three-fifty for thirty minutes.”

“Oh, wow. Let me just pop this in the fridge, I’ll be right back.”

She vanished towards the back of the house. Craig said, “Um, sit down. Do you want something to drink?”

“No thanks. Don’t want to make you hunt for your dishes-- I’m sure you’ve hardly unpacked yet.” Rob sat next to his husband on the sofa.

“Have you lived here long?”

“Six years. We used to live in the city, but we moved when Hunter— that’s our son— was school-aged. We wanted him to have a good school. He's at a friend's this weekend, but I'm sure you'll meet him.”

“We’ve told him that he needs to be more careful, now, about letting his soccer balls go over the fence, but I’m not sure it’s sunk in yet,” Manuel added.

Craig waved that away, though Clint was instantly nervous about the idea of having a kid wandering in their yard. “Oh, it’s fine. Nothing back there for him to hurt.”

Nancy came back and sat down on the other end of the sofa. “So what do you guys do, do you work in the city?”

“I’m an accountant. Manuel’s a teacher.”

“What subject?”

“Math,” Manuel said. “Middle school. I used to teach high school when we lived in the city.”

Nancy nodded. “I moved up here for a job with National.”

“Were you in St. Louis long?”

“About five years,” Craig said. “We got married there. It’s a nice place. I’m gonna miss it.”

Manuel made sympathetic noises. “There’s a lot to do in Chicago. Whatever you’re into, it’s there. Some great bookstores and theaters. And fantastic farmers’ markets. Are you guys foodies?”

_What?_

“Well, we like food,” Nancy said, with a smile that was distinctly not Natasha, “but we’ve never really, you know, had the time to devote to it.”

“But now I've got some until I find a job,” Craig said with a nervous chuckle, “so maybe I’ll check it out.”

“I go every Saturday while they’re open— I picked up some fantastic squash this morning. They’ll close in a month or so, but you can ride along with me if you like.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, we don’t want to keep you from your unpacking,” Rob said after a minute.

“No, please, keep us from our unpacking,” Nancy said.

Rob chuckled. “But let us know if you need anything. And we’ll have you over for dinner once you get settled in.”

“Thanks, that’s very kind of you.” Craig got up and opened the door for them. “Thanks again for the casserole.”

The windows were cracked open, since neither he nor Nat were particularly cold-sensitive, and as the two of them returned to their house, Manuel said, “They seem like a nice couple.”

Clint looked at Natasha. _What have we gotten ourselves into?_

*

They spent the next couple of days buying furniture they didn’t need, and unpacking things that weren’t theirs. Nat started her job. Every night she came home and told him what she'd learned, but right now, it was basic recon. He picked up their second car from S.H.I.E.L.D. and drove by her building a few times, getting a feel for the area. He went for long walks, memorized all the possible escape routes from the neighborhood, and ignored the pain in his leg.

He felt _useless_. What was he actually helping by being Craig Saunders, with his boxes of stuff, and his petty little worries that were so much less than _When am I going to eat? Is anyone likely to kill me in the next hour?_ Nat didn't need him for this, not really. He was backup for the sting, but that was weeks away. Weeks of doing nothing.

When he returned Rob and Manuel's dish, Manuel invited them for dinner. “Why are they doing this?” Nat asked when he told her. “Are they spies themselves? What are the odds?”

“They're just being neighborly.” He shrugged. “Midwest nice.” He'd seen it growing up. It hadn't meant shit to him considering none of the people being “nice” had done anything to help his mom get out, or, later, rescue him and Barney from the worst of the foster parents.

They went on Friday. Nancy was running late, so Clint— Craig— walked over by himself. Both men were in the kitchen when he arrived, Manuel cooking, Rob washing dishes.

“We’re so glad you could make it,” Rob said.

“Yeah, thanks for having us. Nancy’s late getting out of the city, unfortunately. She said about twenty minut—“

“ _Zzzzzzzzhhhhooooom!_ ” A short, dark-haired kid charged down the stairs holding a model airplane in his outstretched hand. “ _Pew pew pew pew pew, kerBOOM!_ ”

“Hunter,” Manuel said.

The kid looked up. “Sorry.”

“Hunter, this is Craig, he and his wife live next door.”

Hunter looked at him. “Hi.”

Clint felt stupid towering over the kid, so he squatted and offered his hand. “Nice to meet you. Your dads were talking about you the other day.”

“Uh-huh.” Hunter shook his hand, but was clearly much more interested in his airplane. He looked a little like each of his dads but not a lot like either of them, and Clint wondered if they’d adopted or used a surrogate. It would probably be rude to ask.

Craig straightened up again. “You need help in the kitchen or anything?”

“Thanks, but I think we’re good,” Manuel said. “Do you want wine, or pop?”

“I’ll take some water.”

He sat in the living room with Rob and made small talk. That wasn’t as awkward as he’d expected— all he had to do was keep him talking about Chicago, and play the role of curious newcomer. _Craig’s first major outing has not yet gone down in flames!_

A car pulled into the driveway. Someone knocked. “It's open!” Rob called.

That boggled Clint's mind. Nancy let herself in the front door. “Hi, sorry I’m late, traffic was horrible. It’s so much worse here than St. Louis, I still haven’t gotten used to it.”

What had she _actually_ been up to? Natasha would never be taken unprepared by something as minor as traffic.

“Not a problem, glad you could make it,” Rob said.

Craig put his arms around her and kissed her. “How was your day, sweetheart?”

“Fine, long. Yours?”

He shrugged. “Fine.” _Pointless, useless._

“I think we’re about ready,” Manuel said.

Craig followed Nancy into the dining room. “Where do you want us to sit?” she asked, as if she did this all the time. Well, she did, in fancier places. Usually in situations that ended in murder. _Won’t this be nice, honey, a quiet dinner with the neighbors where you don’t have to kill anyone._

“How about that side? Hunter! Wash your hands and come down for dinner!”

Dinner was a chicken thing-- “Free range,” Manuel said-- with a potato thing, and a salad, and bread. The conversation flowed disturbingly easily. _They invited us into their home on the assumption that we were normal, and we’re encouraging the deception._ Their neighbors hadn’t done anything but be friendly, and now the _best_ possible outcome was that they would be left wondering why when Craig and Nancy disappeared one day.

He pushed down the emotion. He’d done much worse things for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Hunter was trying to hide his yawns by the time Craig helped Rob carry the dishes into the kitchen. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” Manuel was saying. “Excuse me for a minute, Nancy.”

“But I wanna stay up for dessert!”

“You can have some for breakfast. C’mon.”

Rob made a wry face as he loaded the dishwasher.

Craig chuckled. “I’m guessing that’s a point of disagreement?”

“I’m not in favor of feeding ten-year-olds cheesecake for breakfast, no. But I guess once won’t hurt him.” He carried the cheesecake and the plates into the other room.

After dessert, Craig and Nancy said what was polite, and went home. He checked the perimeter and she checked the inside. Then they went upstairs. Clint took off most of his clothes and collapsed on the bed, watching Nat-- Nancy?-- take off her makeup. “Reminds me of my mom, sometimes.”

 _What?_ He tried to suck the words back in, and discovered that wasn't physically possible.

Nat met his eyes in the mirror. “What does?”

“Watching you take your makeup off. Reminds me of how careful she was to cover the bruises.” He sank deeper into the pillows. _What the hell was in that wine?_ “Wish I remembered her better. But I remember her doing her makeup.”

“I’m sorry.”

The feeling of relaxation disappeared. “I don’t want your fucking pity, Natasha.”

“I wasn’t offering it.” She took off the last of her eye makeup. “I was never meant to be allowed these emotions, Clint. I’m not offering them out of pity. I’m offering them because you’re worth fighting for them.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, but felt like an asshole. “I hate this job,” he muttered, put a pillow over his head, and went to sleep.

*

The nausea eased up first, which was good, because he still wasn’t sleeping and he needed to be able to keep coffee down if he was going to function. He pretended he was fine and made faces at Nat when she asked. He commiserated with Coulson via text. An outside observer might have called it whining, but said outside observer would have been entirely ignorant of the rigors of the spy life.

While Nat wormed her way into the ranks at National, he surveilled Pendrist's house, followed him for a week, and watched all of his known associates that were in the city. He worked out entry and exit routes for Pendrist's office at the bank, and his house, in case they needed them. Then he was out of things to do. More surveillance was not always better if you risked tipping off the mark.

He got a library card for Craig and brought home stacks of books. Natasha noticed: “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the literary type.” It was another statement-hiding-a-question.

He shrugged. “I didn’t go to school past eleven, this was about the only thing that stuck with me.” He turned the page. “My mom was a librarian.”

“Oh?”

He knew her neutral tone was to draw him out, but he didn’t mind taking the bait. “Before we were born. She said she quit ‘cause she didn’t need the money after she got married, but I think her coworkers started asking about the bruises.”

“Your father sounds like a grade-A asshole.”

“Yep.” It was kind of touching, that she even mentioned it, because he knew what _her_ childhood had contained. “She read to us. He hated it.” Some things in his childhood made sense with the benefit of hindsight, the aura of fear and terror with which he’d viewed Dad faded now to loathing and contempt. Five-year-old Clint would never have understood that Dad had hated the reminder of Mom's independence, her previous life.

Nat tilted her head. The next thing out of her mouth came out of left field. “Does it bother you, that he didn’t live long enough for you to hurt him?”

He looked at her over the top of her book.

 _Why do you like her? She’s a loner, a killing machine, and we’re not sure she’s entirely sane_. And Clint had told Coulson that he’d answered his own question. That she would ask something like that was so very Natasha, and so very— why he was closer to her than anyone else, except maybe Phil. “Sometimes,” he said calmly. “Does it bother _you_ , that they died before you could hurt them?”

“Yes.” Then she smiled, predatory, inhuman, satisfied. “I never touched Ivan, but I drew Madame’s blood. I marked her.”

After a minute, he smiled back. She understood.

*

He was reading on the couch, TV on low, when Natasha-- Nancy-- came home. “I made dinner.” He'd learned to cook out of boredom-- not boredom with the takeout they'd been eating, because food was food, but with his lack of other options.

“Great.”

He pulled the chicken out of the oven, hardly burnt at all. They sat down. He ate absent-mindedly. “I been looking in on Pendrist's contacts again,” he said, mouth full. “Some of 'em know the same people, besides him. It's worth looking at them--”

He looked up in time to see her grimace, then gag. She closed her eyes, hand over her mouth, and breathed through her nose.

“Nat?”

“This tastes like the bastard child of cardboard and styrofoam.”

He took another bite. It wasn't a terrible description. “Yeah, so?” Food was food.

She stared at him, long enough for him to remember that every _other_ time he'd seen her react to food like that... it hadn't been about the food.

She picked up her plate and carried it towards the trash.

“Put it in the fridge.”

She stopped behind him.

He didn't turn around. “I'll finish it.”

Her footsteps went into the kitchen, then came back and went upstairs. He took his bow down to the laughably short shooting gallery he'd set up across the length of the basement, and practiced with the lights off, working from memory. When he was done, Natasha was reading in bed. He took a quick shower and stretched out on his side of the bed, content just to drift until she turned the lights out. Last night had been bad, and he was tired.

“I think I'm getting a promotion.”

Good, they could get out of there sooner. “That was unexpected.”

“I fast-tracked myself.” She tapped for a new page. “I let my boss grope me. He seemed to appreciate it.”

He looked at her.

She looked back, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Are you all right?”

“We kept our clothes on. He barely touched me.”

“I didn't ask how naked you got. I asked if you were all right.”

“Yes. I'm fine.”

“Is that why you nearly threw up, and why you're reading the same line over and over again now?”

She lowered the tablet. “You don't understand,” she bit out. “It doesn't bother me.”

He waited for her to explain, or tell a more convincing lie.

“The only part that bothers me is the thought that it _should_ bother me. The-- I was never-- I was not allowed to let it bother me in the Red Room. And now-- a normal person would care but I _don't_.”

“You know you don't owe this to the job.”

“ _Don't_ tell me how to do my job. I'm not your responsibility.”

“I'm the senior agent, Nat, if something goes wrong it's my ass on the line--”

“Oh, the _senior agent_ , how could I forget!”

“Yeah, you sound fine, all right.”

“I don't need your _help._ ”

“Remember that nice speech you gave me a couple weeks ago about mission readiness?” he demanded, trying to keep his voice from rising.

“I don't know when I went this soft, but letting other people _worry_ about me had something to do with it!”

“You're not going _soft_ , Nat, that's not what this means!”

“It does in my world!” Now they were both shouting.

“Your world, or the Red Room's world?”

Her eyes went wide, then narrow. She looked incensed. He thought she might actually strike him. _No, Nat would never--_

But he'd never seen anything good come of a screaming fight between husband and wife. _You're twenty-seven, Barton, get over it already_. He realized, without having been conscious of moving, that he'd pulled out of her reach.

And he saw that she hadn't missed that. Her expression-- oh, he _hated_ this mission, because he knew damn well that Nat thought she was worse than she really was, and he loathed being in a position to reinforce that idea in her. But if he had it to do over again, he knew he still would have pulled away.

“Clint.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I-- I'm obviously not handling this as well as I thought.” She swallowed. “I'm sorry.”

He made himself relax. “I... me too. I know you-- I know you're not them.”

“It's not the job, it's being a woman in a world of men who think they own you. But yes. I know I don't owe this to the job.” She shrugged. “But it's the best way to get it done.”

He floundered for the right words.

“I would care if it were Natasha,” she said. “But it's not. Nancy's not real. It doesn't matter what happens to her.”

“It matters what happens to you.”

“You rob a platitude store today, Barton?”

It was a strained attempt at shifting the attention away from herself, but he didn't call her on it. He stretched out on his back again, so he could be more subtle about watching her. “You know I've been bored.”

After five minutes, she stood, stretched, and reached for the lamp switch. “Nat--” he began, then stopped.

“What?”

Anything he said risked convincing her that there _was_ something wrong with her, for her reaction. He sighed. “Never mind.”

Her lips quirked. “I know,” she said. “Thanks.”

*

Things kind of leveled out after that. He couldn't risk going to the Chicago S.H.I.E.L.D. base in person, but he convinced them to give him simple recon missions in the area. He was new to town-- it made sense that he'd be exploring. Between that, and continuing to watch Pendrist and his contacts, he managed not to feel completely useless.

But he still spent what felt like a ridiculous number of nights reading, or watching TV. He liked leisure, but this was-- it was absurd, to be collecting a paycheck for this.

This was one of those nights. He had his leg up, and was halfway through a book on poisons. Natasha was out, “working late” and getting acquainted with nighttime security procedures. His phone was beside him; he was waiting for a report on HQ about the financials of one of Pendrist's “friends.” Every strand in his web that they identified was one more advantage for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Footsteps on the porch, then fast knocking.

Clint checked his gun.

More knocking. “Craig? Nancy? It’s Rob.”

Craig opened the door. Rob lowered his hand from getting ready to knock again. “Oh thank God.” His eyes were wide, and he was soaking wet. Hunter was beside him, his backpack on.

“What's wrong?”

“I’m so sorry to have to ask this, but can you guys watch Hunter for a few hours?”

 _Could we_ what. “Nancy’s not home, but I’d be happy to keep an eye on him. Is everything all right?”

“Manuel got arrested at a protest for higher pay for teachers. I need to go bail him out. Our normal babysitter went into labor early and our backup has the flu--” He looked down. “Hunter, go dry off in the bathroom before you catch cold.”

Hunter rolled his eyes and put down his backpack. “I’m not stupid, you could've just told me to cover my ears!” he yelled as he walked away.

Clint snorted.

“The police have treated protesters badly before.” Rob spoke fast and soft. “Last time they threatened to deport him. He was fucking _naturalized_ seven years ago--” He shook his head. “Thank you. I don’t know how long it’ll be, but here’s a key to the house in case Hunter needs anything. And let me give you my cell phone number—“ He fished a piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket.

Hunter came back. “What about Camp Fire?”

“I’m sorry. Next week.”

“But, _Dad_ —”

“If he needs to go somewhere, I can take him,” Craig said. Clint said, _What?_ “If you’re worried, I’m a good driver. No accidents.”

That was, technically, true. Craig Saunders had no accidents on his record. Clint Barton did, but he _was_ a good driver. Capable of obeying the speed limit, even.

“You don’t have to—“

“Seriously, it’s no problem. He’d probably have more fun there than hanging around here. Right?” He looked down at Hunter.

“Yes.”

Rob sighed. “Manners, Hunter. It’s a Camp Fire USA meeting— it’s held at the community center downtown, you know the one?”

Craig nodded.

“I'll call the troop leader and let him know you'll bring Hunter tonight.” He took out his phone.

Craig looked down at Hunter. “You okay hanging out with me while your dads are in the city?”

Hunter nodded, and scuffed his feet along the floor. “Were you in it as a kid? Or Scouts?”

“No.”

“Really? Every boy in my class is a Scout.” He scuffed his foot against the floor . “‘cept me.”

Rob hung up and said, “George knows you're bringing him. The meeting starts at seven.” He squatted down to eye level with his son. “Behave, okay? Dad and I will be home soon.”

Hunter nodded.

Rob kissed his forehead. “Bye, baby.”

“ _Dad_.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Craig. Thanks.” He hurried out the door.

Craig looked down at Hunter. “Have you had dinner?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got some time. Do you need a snack?”

“Can we make microwave s’mores?”

“What’re those?”

“You’ve _ne_ ver made microwave s’mores?”

“Nope.”

“You stick a marshmallow on a graham cracker and a piece of chocolate and heat it up in the microwave until it gets all big and gooshy. It’s like a real s’more but it’s not as crunchy.”

“We don’t have marshmallows or graham crackers. Sorry.”

Hunter stared at him with something that might have been fascination or pity. _Sorry, kid, bein’ a grownup’s rough, and that’s if you_ don’t _take a job blowing people’s brains out_.

“We have some at my house.”

Craig shrugged. “Okay, sure.” He grabbed the umbrella, locked the door, and followed Hunter into the rain. Inside his own house, Hunter turned the cabinets inside out looking for what he wanted. “You should clean those up. Don’t want to make a mess for your dads.” Craig knew it wasn’t polite to leave things messy. Clint just remembered having to put things back exactly where he found them or get a beating.

Craig shoved Clint’s memories down.

“‘kay, got it!” Hunter said.

Back inside the Saunders house, Hunter bounded for the kitchen. “We need something that can go in the microwave.”

Craig handed him a plate from the cupboard.

Hunter looked at him. “That’s _plas_ tic,” he said patiently.

“Oh.” _You're not supposed to microwave that?_ He found something that _ting_ ed when he flicked it. “Here.”

Hunter put together piles of marshmallows and graham crackers with a speed that seemed supernatural. _Keep an eye on this one, Fury, he might be good for R &D._ Hunter stuck the plate inside the microwave and pressed start, watching through the window intently. “See how they get all huge? That’s my favorite part.”

“Do they explode if you leave ‘em in there for long enough?”

“Yeah! You wanna see?”

Clint thought, belatedly, of cleaning exploded marshmallow from the inside of the microwave. “Nope.”

Hunter looked disappointed, but took the plate out and squished the marshmallows down with a piece of chocolate on top of each. “Heeh, twy un.” He stuffed a whole one in his mouth.

Craig picked up the oozing, sticky thing and tried to take a bite. You couldn’t really bite off a piece of melted marshmallow. After a few seconds of intense combat, he ate the thing without getting it everywhere. “Interesting.”

“Want another one?”

“I’m having a late dinner with Nancy, don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

“‘kay.” Hunter didn’t look too upset by his refusal. He took out a jar of peanut butter and smeared it on the rest of the graham crackers. Then he covered them in powdered sugar. “This is my favorite way to eat them. Dad says it’s too sweet but I like it.”

“Do you want some milk to go with ‘em?”

“Yeah! … please.”

By the time Craig poured the milk, Hunter had downed two of the four remaining piles of mess. His face was covered in peanut butter and powdered sugar. “Fanks.” He reached for the glass with his mouth full. “Where’s, um, where’s Mrs. Saunders?”

“She’s working late. ” _And going out for some B &E after that_.

“Oh.” He swallowed. “When Dad has to work late in tax season, we watch a lot of movies. Hey, after Camp Fire can I stay up late and watch TV?”

 _Sure, why not_. Wait, was that the responsible answer? _How would I know?_ “We’ll see after the meeting. Did you bring, uh, homework?”

“Nope. Did it all already.” He stuffed the last s’mores in his mouth.

“Already, huh?”

“Yep.”

Craig shrugged. He didn’t know if that was true, but he didn’t really care. Let Hunter’s dads sort it out. He checked the clock. “We should go soon.”

Hunter pushed his plate away. “I’on’t feel so good.”

 _Aw, no, puking kids is above my pay grade_. “Here, we got some…” He hurried to the bathroom cabinet and rummaged around, listening with one ear for the sounds of vomiting. He hurried back. “Here.”

Hunter looked at the assortment. “That pink stuff is _gross_.”

Clint privately agreed, which is why the bottle was unopened.

“What’s this?”

“Ginger candy.”

“Oooh, candy.” Hunter unwrapped a piece and stuck it in his mouth. His eyes got wide. “ _Spicy_.”

Craig went back to the kitchen while Hunter figured out whether or not he was gonna hurl. To his credit, the kid hadn’t made much of a mess. He wiped up a few errant blobs of peanut butter and closed up all the stuff. “You ready to go?” he called after a few minutes.

“Yeah, just a sec!” Hunter jumped off the chair and hurried into the bathroom.

 _Better than the carpet, at least_. But he was only in there for a minute, then came back out.

 _Is there anything in the car or the garage—_ Clint ran through the inventory in his mind. No, nothing in there would blow their cover. He hated the idea of leaving the house without his bow, especially with a kid. _You sure this is a good idea, Barton? Someone attacks you, you can take care of yourself, but what about the kid?_

_Since when has my life revolved around good ideas?_

He tried to be rational: the odds of someone recognizing him at a kid's meeting in suburban Chicago were pretty low. They should be safe. But still. “Hang on, I forgot something upstairs.” He tucked his quiver into a messenger bag, collapsed his bow, and strapped it to his leg. _Better safe than sorry. Better paranoid than safe._

Craig made sure Hunter wore his seatbelt, because he was responsible like that. When they made it inside, Hunter nearly collided with a man standing at the door to a small gym, and ducked around his legs. “Hi Mister Oliver!”

“Hi,” the man said. “Who are you, exactly?”

Clint could have gotten past, too, but it would have been more noticeable. “I'm Craig Saunders. Rob's neighbor. He sent Hunter with me.”

“You're not on our list of approved parents and guardians.”

“It's fine,” another man called from inside. “It's fine, Oliver, Rob called.” He came up behind Oliver. “Hi, I'm George. Rob said you'd be coming. You're welcome to stay if you want.”

“Uh, yeah, that’d probably be good.”

“Well, come on in, we’re about ready to start.” George gave him a friendly smile and headed back into the room.

Oliver stopped him from following with a hand on his shoulder. Clint was instantly on high alert, tensing against the feel of physical restraint, but Craig managed to keep it together. “Hey, hope I didn’t upset you.”

 _No, but if you don’t get your hands off me, you might_. “Nah, I understand.”

“We have to watch out for the kids, you know. There’s all kinds of people out there.”

 _Buddy, you have no idea_. “No, I get it.” He passed George’s friendly smile on to the other man, and finally managed to get past him.

He looked around and took one of the chairs against the wall. Hunter had already plopped himself down in the circle on the floor, chattering animatedly to a slightly younger boy with cornrows. A few chairs down, an older woman, brow furrowed, lips moving as she counted… whatever you counted when you knitted. After a minute, she looked up. “Are you with Hunter?”

“Uh, yeah.” Clint make Craig produce another friendly smile.

“Then you must be Manuel. I’m Rachel Moon. Clyde’s my grandson— the one with the copper mohawk. It’s so nice to meet you, I’ve heard _so_ much about you from Rob.” She held out her hand.

“Uh, no, I’m their neighbor. Craig.” He shook her hand. “Rob had an emergency in the city so I'm watching Hunter.”

“An emergency? Is everything all right?”

“He just had to go pick up Manuel. They should be back pretty soon.”

“Oh, dear. I hope he didn’t get mugged. You know how the city can be.”

“Don’t worry, uh, Mrs. Moon. It wasn't a mugging.”

“You just can’t be too careful in the city these days. The crime is just out of control. Those people have just taken _over_ , I’m afraid.”

Before Craig could ask who she thought “those people” were, George sat down in the circle. He gave some general announcements as ten sets of eyes watched him with a wiggly sort of attention. Then he said, “Unfortunately, as you’ve noticed, it’s raining, so we can’t have our archery lesson outside like we were supposed to. The good news is, our instructor agreed to come this week _and_ next week, so this week you’ll learn the basics here indoors, and then hopefully the next week will be better weather.” He checked his watch. “Our instructor should be here any minute, so we'll get the targets out.”

As the kids wrestled with the brown stuffed sacks, a tall, skinny woman, drenched with rain, appeared in the doorway. George looked up. “Ms. Centerstar, so glad you could make it.”

“Hi, sorry I’m late.” Her voice was low and musical. “The storm threw off my navigation. It just wreaked havoc with my fields.” She put down a bow case, a quiver, and a handbag, all made out of old burlap sacks, tugged off her sweatshirt, and blotted at her soaked dreadlocks. It didn't work; they stayed stark black against her pale skin. She slipped two chunky crystal bracelets off her wrists, exchanging them for a highly decorated arm guard and a shooting glove. “You’ve got the targets all set up… hmmm.”

“Something wrong?”

“Well, generally, you’d want to shoot going in the other direction— on the other plane— because of the _chi_ of the room. But this is just a beginner’s lesson, it’ll be fine.”

“Okay, kids,” George said, as the boys collected around him again, “this is Ms. Lyra Centerstar, and she’ll be teaching you how to shoot. So, everyone grab a bow, and line up at center court.”

“Oh, please, they can call me Lyra. It’s so much more intimate, you know, so much more egalitarian. Hierarchical authority structures just make all the positive energy go crazy.” She tugged the wrappings off her bow, shouldered her quiver, and glided to the center of the room. “So, the first thing you need to know is how to stand. When you draw a bow, you don’t—“

“It’s too bad little Melody isn’t here tonight,” Mrs. Moon said in an undertone. “She’d love it. She’s such a tomboy. She’ll grow up to be a handful, that one.”

“It’s not boys only?”

“Oh, no, dear, you’re thinking of the Boy Scouts. Camp Fire is much more inclusive. That’s why I bring Clyde here. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea, you know, that it’s okay to exclude people who are different.”

“Uh, yeah, of course not.” Craig looked back to the center of the room.

“Do you go hunting?” one of the boys asked.

Lyra smiled down at him. “I do, yes. I hunt deer by the full moon when they’re in season. I’m tanning and saving the hides for a tipi I’m making. For a red tent, you know, for every month.”

George coughed. “No, I don’t think they know. Has everybody got their equipment on all straight?”

“Well, she’s certainly a unique woman,” Mrs. Moon said. “But then I suppose you get all kinds, in the city.”

 _There’s all kinds of people out there_. But Oliver had let this one _in_.

“Why do you only hunt by the full moon? Is it ‘cause you can see better?”

“Oh, no. The power of the blood is strongest at the full moon. Blood has so much potential, you know, and if you get it at the right time, you can do all sorts of things with it. I collect mine and use it to fertilize my plants. That way when I harvest it, I get some of my life force back. But it’s purified, because it’s gone through the plants.”

_Have I been doing it wrong all this time? I should’ve only been shooting people on the full moon? Were-Hawkeye!_

“This is how you string a bow…”

If he ignored her extraneous comments, she was giving a halfway-decent lesson. The kids shot their first rounds. The little boy on the end took longer than the others, and Clyde started forward, impatient to retrieve his arrows. Lyra reached out and grabbed him. “No, no, you can’t go on the course when someone else is shooting. It’ll mess up the lines of their energy.”

They shot another round. “My arm hurts,” Hunter complained.

“Your muscles aren’t used to it,” George said. “It’ll be easier next time.”

“No. My _skin_ hurts.” He rubbed the inside of his left arm.

Lyra glided over to him. “You need to think positively about the bow, okay?” she said. “If you’re too hostile, then that negative energy will get transferred back to you when you shoot, and that’s what makes your arm hurt.”

“You need to rotate your wrist,” Clint said.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

He went and stood behind Hunter. “The string’s hitting your arm when you shoot, ‘cause you have your elbow pointing down. If you turn your arm so your elbow points left, then that big part of your arm is out of the way. See?” Hunter drew, and fired, and the string flew past his arm guard without impact. “Yeah, like that.”

Lyra frowned sharply. “Quick fixes won’t help them in the long run. It’s very important to get into the proper flow.”

“It’s ‘very important’ to have the right _technique_.”

“ _I’ve_ never had a problem with the angle of my elbow.”

“It’s ‘cause your arm’s so skinny. Your body’s making up for your bad form.”

Lyra looked down her nose at him. “If you’re so skeptical of the right ways of doing things, do you want to teach this class yourself, Mr…?”

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said.

Everyone stared.

“Okay, one thing you need to keep in mind is your breathing. You sight the target, you breathe in, then you only release as you exhale. You—“

“Your energy is _terrible_ ,” Lyra said. “You must have been something _awful_ in a past life. Your karmic debt is incredible.”

“Do you shoot?” Hunter's eyes were wide.

“I, uh, I used to, but I f— messed up my elbow. I don’t do it any more. Still remember the technique, though.”

“Lots of injuries stem from too much hostile energy towards your equipment,” Lyra informed him.

“Yeah, great. Why don’t you guys line up again, take aim, and I’ll come around and correct your form.”

 _“Well_ ,” Lyra said. “I’m _sorry_ , George, but I cannot teach in this room. There is _much_ too much dark energy. You should be careful. I wouldn’t be surprised if that man were a _murderer_.”

 _Congratulations, you’re a stopped clock._ “Okay, you’re good.” He moved to the next kid.

“Ah, Ms. Centerstar…”

But Lyra had already unstrung her bow. She shouldered her quiver and her bag. “ _You_ should rub oil of lemon balm under your nose three times a day and drink hemp juice,” she informed Craig. “It would work _miracles_ with your outlook on life.” She stuck her nose in the air and swept out of the room.

There was an awkward silence. He heard a choking noise-- Oliver trying not to laugh.

“So, er,” George said. “Mr. Saunders is going to finish the lesson tonight. Right?” He gave Craig a look that looked remarkably like _finish the lesson or I will finish you_.

“They can call me Craig. It’s so much more egalitarian.”

Most of the kids weren’t bad, really-- they couldn’t put any real power behind their shots, but they didn’t have bad habits to unlearn. The musculature to draw a more powerful bow would come with time, if they kept at it. They were done after another forty minutes. Parents started to filter into the room. Clint kept a careful eye on his bag, stashed inconspicuously under the seat; if anyone poked into that, he’d have a lot of awkward questions to answer.

Hunter was still holding onto his bow. “Can you make a bullseye, Mr. Saunders?”

“I used to be able to.”

“Show me!” He held out the bow. “Please?”

“Aw, Hunter, I messed up my elbow shooting. Don’t want to hurt it again. Nancy’d be upset.”

“Aw.”

George had sent most of the other kids off with their parents, and came back to help Oliver break down the rest of the equipment. “I didn’t know you could shoot, Mr. Saunders. Did you learn as a kid?”

“Oh, I fooled around in college. Nothing too formal.” He hesitated. “I, uh, in retrospect, I kinda made things awkward for you. Sorry about that.”

“Just as well, I suppose,” George said after a minute. “‘The red tent’ and its magical powers is a conversation they should have with their _parents_.”

“What’s the red tent?” Hunter asked immediately.

“Ask your dads. You ready to go home?”

“Yeah! Did my dads call?”

“Not yet. But it shouldn’t be too long.”

Hunter looked a little disappointed. “Okay. Night, Mr. George. Night, Mr. Oliver.”

“Night, Hunter!”

It was still raining. He sent Nat a quick text: _Company. Not dangerous_. “Buckled?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The other car was still gone when they got back to the house, and there were no lights on next door. Hunter stared out the window. “Dad said Dad got arrested.”

“Yeah.”

“D’you think he’s all right?”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“The police’ll look after him, right? ’Til Dad gets there?”

“… yeah.” There was just no way Clint was going to have that conversation. Let him keep his illusions for a while longer. He was just a kid. And kids— they should get to be innocent. They shouldn’t have to grow old before their time.

Hunter kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the sofa with a handheld game thing from his backpack. He stuck his tongue out in concentration as it made beeps and bloops. Craig settled into the armchair with his book.

But he couldn’t concentrate. Hunter was just a normal, ten-year-old kid from the Midwest, like Clint could have been, with a better dad. Probably— hopefully— no one had laid a violent hand on Hunter in his life. Clint didn’t know if his dads had adopted him or used a surrogate, but he sure hadn’t bounced around in eight different homes by the time he was ten.

What was it, besides luck of the draw, that had given Hunter a good life and Clint, at the same age, a fucked-up one? _There ain’t much sense in this world_. Or any sort of balance. No point in dwelling on it; he couldn’t change the past, and he sure as _hell_ wouldn’t wish to have switched places with Hunter or any other kid. _Might think of a few adults I’d wish that on, but they contributed to the fucking-up, so._

Tires crunched on the driveway. Hunter’s ears perked up, though he tried to act nonchalant. Clint tensed and kept Craig from showing it; he felt the pressure of his bow against his leg, and his gun against his back, and got ready to tell Hunter to run if something had gone wrong with Nat’s plans and that _wasn’t_ her, alone…

But it was. She locked the door behind her and tossed her keys on the table, looking wet and tired. “Hi, honey, we’re in here!” Craig called.

Nancy came into the room. “‘We’— oh, hi, Hunter.” Nat looked out of Nancy’s face for a moment, and managed to communicate raised eyebrows quite clearly without actually raising her eyebrows at all.

Craig got up and kissed her. “Manuel got arrested and Rob went to go get him. He asked if we could watch Hunter for a while. I said sure.”

“Arrested?” Now Nancy’s eyebrows did go up.

“At a protest for teachers' pay. How was your day, sweetheart?”

“Long,” she sighed. “Have you boys had a quiet evening in?”

“Nope. Mr. Saunders took me to my archery lesson! He annoyed the teacher, and she left, and he taught the rest of it.”

It was remarkable how he could _feel_ Natasha’s eyes boring a hole through his head.

“That was sweet of you, baby.” Nancy yawned. “I’m sorry, I think I’m going to turn in, I’m just beat. Too tired to be hungry. Do you have things handled down here?”

“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Want me to fix you something before I go upstairs?”

“Nah, I got it.” He put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “Night, darlin’.”

“‘Night, Mrs. Saunders,” Hunter added, eyes fixed on his video game.

“Good night, Hunter. See you when you come upstairs, Craig.” Her soft steps padded up the stairs.

“Hey, Mr. Saunders?”

“You can call me Craig, Hunter.”

“‘kay. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Are cooties real?”

 _Oh my God, it's like I'm in a Salvador Dali painting._ “Um. No.”

“I asked my dads,” he said conversationally, sock feet wiggling in the air as he thumbed his game furiously, “and they said the same thing, but they don’t usually kiss girls, so I thought you would know better.”

“Well, I’ve been kissing Nancy for years, and I don’t have cooties.”

Hunter wrinkled his nose. “A girl in my class said she’d give me cooties, but I think that’s just ‘cause she didn’t like the song I tried to teach her.”

“What song?”

Craig regretted asking even before Hunter launched into it with enthusiasm: “‘Beans, beans, the magical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot! Beans, beans—‘“

 _That’s… catchy. In a horrible way._ “Hey, keep it down, Nancy’s going to bed.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

Thankfully, he didn’t start over at a lower volume.

Clint’s ears caught the footsteps on the porch, and he went tensed again. He _knew_ Natasha wasn’t asleep upstairs, but this time Hunter was between him and the door. At the knock, Hunter dropped his game, bounded off the couch, slipped and nearly fell in his sock feet on the wood floor of the foyer, and undid the lock.

“Check the peephole first—“

But Hunter had already wrenched open the door. “Dads!”

“Hey, kiddo.” Manuel reached forward with a tired smile and ruffled his son’s hair.

“Hey, there.” Clint knew, immediately, that Manuel was hurt, leaning on Rob for support. And he knew just as certainly that Manuel was hiding it from his son. He watched the other man for a minute… and then looked up to find Manuel watching him with a gaze of equal depth.

“I’m so sorry we’re so late,” Rob said. “Did you have any trouble?”

“Nope. Went to the meeting. Came home. Nancy got home a few minutes ago.”

“I got my stuff!” Hunter hopped on one foot, then the other, pulling his shoes on.

“You’ve got more in the kitchen, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Hunter raced for the back of the house.

“S’mores,” Craig explained, at Manuel’s enquiring look.

“Ah.”

“Are you gonna be okay? If you need to go to the ER, Nancy and I can watch him overnight—“

“Nothing’s broken. Just some bruises from an… overzealous… truncheon.”

“If by ‘overzealous’ you mean ‘sadistic’,” Rob muttered.

“I just want to get home before Hunter realizes. Thank you so much for watching him, Craig.”

“It was no problem. He was good.”

“I got the stuff!” Hunter skidded to a halt on the carpet, clutching the paper bag. “Can we go?”

“Say thank you to Craig, Hunter,” Rob reminded him.

“Thank-you.” Then he perked up. “That archery was _sweet_.”

Craig laughed. “Glad you enjoyed it. Take care, you guys, see you around.”

Craig watched to make sure they got back in their own house, because he was a good neighbor, and because Clint knew what it was like to have to move when you were hurt and hiding it. Then he turned off the outside lights and checked the perimeter of the house. When he was satisfied everything was as safe as the terrible floor plan and sight lines could make it, he went upstairs.

“Archery,” Natasha said from the darkened bedroom, “lesson?”

Clint sighed. “I didn’t shoot anything.”

“Way to be inconspicuous, Hawkeye.”

“She was teaching ‘em wrong, they could’ve gotten hurt.”

“Strained muscles of ten-year-olds is acceptable collateral damage.”

“I like watching bad archery about as much as I like going the speed limit.” He went into the bathroom and washed his face. “Seriously, Nat, she was going on about hunting deer at the full moon to make her 'red tent.'”

“What the hell is a red tent?”

“It's a girl thing. You know.”

“A 'girl thing.'”

“Like tampons?”

“Why would you want a _tent_ \-- never mind.”

He brushed his teeth, and came into the bedroom. “You find anything tonight?”

“I eliminated some possibilities.” She sounded frustrated.

He nodded. “You need any help?”

“No, and I'll tell you if and when I do.” To her credit, she didn't sound irritated about answering the question _again_.

“Great.” He flopped face-forward on the bed, and tried to convince himself that he hadn't been aching to pick up one of those toy bows, just for a minute, and sink a shot longer than the basement.

*

They celebrated their “anniversary.” Halfway through dinner at a nice restaurant Rob and Craig had suggested, his phone rang. He looked at the number: Coulson.

“H’llo?”

“We need you. Is Agent Romanoff with you?”

“Yes.”

“Two agents are liaising with law enforcement in Iowa City to crack a human experimentation ring based out of the university. They’ve called for backup. When they heard you were in the area, they specifically requested you.”

“On our way.”

“I’ll text you the address and let the agents know you’re coming.”

“Got it.” He hung up, stole two go-boxes, shoved their food inside, and left enough money on the table to cover the meal. “Tell you in the car.”

“They need us in Iowa,” he said, once the doors were shut. “Busting up a human experimentation ring. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s already on the ground. D’you need anything from the house?”

She shook her head. His bow and quiver were in the trunk, and S.H.I.E.L.D. could get them anything else they needed.

“What part of Iowa are you from?” Nat asked after twenty miles.

He didn’t want to play the _tell me about your childhood_ game with her, but he didn’t want to refuse outright and reveal how uncomfortable it made him, either. Though she probably knew already; she was Natasha. “Des Moines.”

“Really? I would have pegged you for a farm boy.”

“My dad was a… guess you’d call him a consultant. He worked with a lot of the businesses in the city.” This was one of the _many_ reasons he didn’t like to go there with her: once he got started talking about it to one of the few people he trusted with it, it was hard to stop. _I want people to know what a fucked-up bastard he was-- he doesn’t deserve any kind of clean memory_. _I just don’t want 'em to think too much about what he did to ME._ “Went around to places, helped ‘em be more productive and make more money. People liked him. He made good money. They called him a ‘pillar of the business community.’”

Natasha was silent, and he knew it was inevitable, knew he was going to tell her.

“But he... was a sadistic bastard with control issues. He'd hit any of us around, any time he wanted. Sometime he'd... get angry, he’d stop going out on calls, stop washing, stop shaving, start drinking. Those days were worse.” He paused for a minute. “He set his own schedule, so no one really noticed. Or, hell, maybe they did notice and they just didn’t give a fuck.”

“What happened to him?” she asked after a moment.

 _Nat, I_ recognize _your keep-the-mark-talking voice._ “Got drunk and crashed the car. Killed instantly. My mom too.”

“I’m sorry.”

They’d had this fight, and— _If you can be sorry for what happened to her, she can be sorry for what happened to you_. “Thanks.”

“And your brother?”

“We’re done with story time.”

She let it go. The ride was quiet, but not awkward. As they got closer, he pointed out occasional landmarks from his youth. “That’s where I learned to drive. The first time.”

“With the elephant trailer?”

“Nah, that came later, in Wisconsin. One of the acrobats fell out of a tree here, to startle me, and I crashed the station wagon. B— m’brother was _pissed_.”

They reached the city around ten and met up with S.H.I.E.L.D. at a police station. The heat was malfunctioning something awful. It felt like a hot, sticky summer day. He’d long since rolled up the sleeves of Craig’s shirt; now he pulled it off entirely, leaving his T-shirt on.

There were two agents sitting at the conference table. Their jackets were draped over the back of their chairs, and their sleeves were rolled up, too. Both men— one was older, with iron-grey hair, and the other was a young kid, probably Nat's age. “Agent Barton? I’m Agent Vaughn,” the older man said. He looked past Clint to Nat, his gaze drifting down in a way that made Clint put a tick in the negative column, and frowned. “And this is Agent Denovski.”

“Hi. Call me Denny.” The kid was also staring at Natasha.

“Great. What’s the situation?” He grabbed a chair; Nat sat down on his other side.

Vaughn looked at her again, and his frown deepened. “Agent Coulson said you were in the middle of something, Barton, and I’m sorry to have pulled you away from your _date_ , but do you think we could get Cocktail Waitress Barbie out of here? This is a sensitive briefing.”

Clint stared at him in disbelief. _Coulson didn’t tell— what kind of— how stupid_ are _you?!_ The silence grew awkward. When he glanced at Nat, her smile was feral. “Agent Vaughn. I don’t believe you’ve met my partner, Agent Romanoff.”

The disgruntled expression slid right off Vaughn’s face, replaced with something akin to horror. He glanced at Nat, then away. “I didn’t realize you had a partner. I thought you always worked alone,” he muttered, face red.

“Not any more.”

“Agent Romanoff. Please… accept my apologies. I’ve heard a lot about you—“ He seemed to have to choke that out past a tight throat— “and I’m, uh, glad you could… join us. Can I, uh, offer you my coat?” His eyes flicked down to the neckline of her dress, again.

She screwed up her eyebrows at him. “No. It’s eighty degrees in here. Keep your eyes to yourself the old-fashioned way, and we’ll be fine.”

Vaughn’s face went a curdled, mottled shade of red. “Fine. Let’s get started.” He cleared his throat. “A group of animal rights extremists with ties to the university has been occupying an unused sub-basement and conducting human experimentation at night. Apparently, they’ve been filming their _work_ in order to make propaganda videos about animal testing.”

Natasha didn’t make a sound-- literally, which was how Clint noticed that she’d stopped breathing. Without even thinking about it, he moved his hand from his thigh to the space between their chairs. _What the_ hell _, Barton, you can’t just_ hold hands _during a—_

Instead he nudged her, lightly, just enough that he heard her take a quick breath and then keep breathing. It was this damned mission. He couldn’t keep ten people at once in his head like she could, and the lines, the boundaries, were blurring all to hell.

The whole thing took about two seconds. Vaughn and Denny hadn’t noticed. Vaughn flipped a page and started talking again. “Normally, this would be local law enforcement business, but we were out here because we were tracking certain illicit substances that came out of Culver University. Are you familiar with that?”

Clint shook his head.

“Ah, well, it’s need to know.” Vaughn almost succeeded in not sounding smug. “Anyway, law enforcement wants the perps, we want to know where they got the stuff, and we also want to take the victims into custody, and test them.”

“Test them how?” Nat’s voice was harsh.

Vaughn looked surprised. “Make sure they haven’t suffered any permanent damage. Warn them if there are going to be any long-term effects.”

“And what if they have?”

Vaughn looked tired. “Agent Romanoff, that’s not my division. You’ll have to ask Medical.”

“They found homes for the last of the Ontario kids in January.” Vaughn and Denny looked puzzled, but they didn’t need to understand. He glanced up at Nat.

She nodded once.

“Unfortunately—“ Vaughn sighed. “Law enforcement tipped them off. So they know we know. The police are maintaining a perimeter, but I gave them strict orders _not_ to move in or make contact.”

“So what do you want us for?” Clint asked.

Vaughn looked uncomfortable. “We were hoping you could get inside and secure the victims before we storm the place.”

Clint looked at the two of them, in their suits, and tried to picture them creeping stealthily through a sub-basement. Coulson, they were not. “Do you have floor plans?”

“Right here.” Vaughn unrolled them, looked relieved to be able to contribute something useful. He tapped part of it. “They're here. We think they used abandoned equipment stored down here, and we _know_ they’ve been using supplies from upstairs.”

Nat frowned. “What's the connection to the university?”

Vaughn looked disgusted. “One of the professors sympathized with them enough to let them move in, and has been funneling supplies their way. She swears she didn’t know they had people down there until last night. She’s the one who tipped off the police. They say she’s cooperating fully.” He tapped the paper. “The professor gave them incomplete floor plans; these steam tunnels aren’t on them. You should be able to get close this way. Once you’re in position…”

He was more competent than first or second impressions had let Clint to believe, and gave solid intel. Denny didn’t contribute much, just stared thoughtfully at the plans—

No, he was definitely staring at Nat.

Nat noticed at the same time. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Hey. My eyes are up here. If you can’t manage that, my knives are down here, and I can take care of that staring problem for you.”

Denny’s eyes widened. He made a noise that sounded like _glrrk_. “No-ma’am. Sorry ma’am.”

Nat gave him a disgusted look, then turned back to the plans.

Had S.H.I.E.L.D. paired these two up on the grounds that they were both walking sexual harassment lawsuits? Or had Vaughn taught that to Denny? Clint had a very strong and healthy respect for Nat’s ability to take care of herself, but if these guys were so incredibly idiotic that they didn’t realize how perilous it was to piss off the Black Widow, maybe he could get them to see the light. With a couple of short, pithy points. Not necessarily verbal ones.

Vaughn, at least, gave Denny a disappointed look, which was akin to pissing on a five-alarm fire to put it out. He kept going with the briefing. “Questions?” he asked finally. “I have earpieces for you. Here.”

Clint looked at Nat. She shook her head. “I think we’re good.”

“Do you need any, uh, equipment, weapons… uniforms.” Vaughn stared at the wall past Nat’s head.

“An extra gun.”

“I could use some pants.” Craig's dress trousers wouldn't hold up down there. “And real shoes. And infrared goggles.”

Once they were equipped, Vaughn took them to the building where the steam tunnels started, and gave them access cards and master keys. “How much would I have to pay you to tell Coulson it was an accident if I dropped something heavy off a tall building onto their heads?” Nat muttered once the door swung shut behind them.

“They keep this up, I might do it for free.”

The musty tunnels were just wide enough for them to walk single file. Clint took point. They made it to the other building without meeting anyone. Two more turns, and up ahead, Clint saw a faint sheen of heat under a door. There was someone up there.

They listened on the other side of the door. “Dunno what the hell we’re doing back here,” someone muttered. “We should be up there with the others. Does Jeannie think zombies are going to come out of the storage closet, or something?” There was a _thump_ on the door.

A woman: “You know she’s just trying to keep us safe.”

“I don’t _want_ to be safe. I’m not afraid of the police!”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should be. Shut up now, I wanna listen to what’s happening up there.”

 _Nothing but a diversion, I hope_. Vaughn had promised to keep the police negotiating with the target for as long as Clint and Nat needed. He looked under the door with the goggles. A more concentrated blob of white, a foot— someone was standing right in front of it. He looked up at Nat. _Lock picks_ , he mouthed, and hoped the goggles were sensitive enough that she could see.

She held up her hand, picks already ready.

He nodded, and looked under the door again. He could see both pairs of feet; they were pointing away from the door. He felt on the tunnel floor for a little piece of debris. Then he aimed and flicked it under the door, away from the two guards. It _clink_ ed into the far wall.

“What was that?!”

Nat started working on the lock.

“What was what.” But the woman sounded uneasy, too.

“Something made a noise.”

“It’s probably just the pipes.”

Then why haven’t we heard it before?”

“Maybe they’re running the water inside.”

Pause. “You don’t think they’re going to surrender, do you?”

“No.” Pause. “And even if they do, we’ve already gotten the footage out. It’s powerful. You know what Ethan can do with stuff like that. This is really going to change the game.”

Pause. “You really think it was the pipes?”

“No, maybe it was the zombies.”

“Be _serious_.”

A sigh. “Give me the flashlight, I’ll go look.”

Nat put her lock picks away and nodded once as the footsteps retreated. Clint tapped out the pattern for a tranquilizer arrow, stretched out on the floor, and shoved it under the door with enough force to penetrate the man’s shoe.

A _yelp_ of pain. Clint pulled it back without spilling too much blood, which would be obvious, and rolled out of the way. A _thud_ \-- the woman called, “Brad?”

He rolled to his feet as Nat yanked the door open. The woman was bent over the man. “Brad!” She looked up, eyes wide, and Clint shoved the arrow into her shoulder. She gasped, and then collapsed.

They pulled off the goggles, and tied and gagged the guards. One end of the corridor dead-ended to their right; the other stretched out of sight around a curve. They went forward silently for a while and reached a tee in the corridor. Around the corner, three people were staggered along the inside wall, twenty to thirty feet apart, facing away from them. The one closest to them was guarding a door— and wearing a helmet. Clint pointed to him. Nat nodded, and drew a knife. It was so silent down here that even the _thud_ of an arrow would be noticeable.

But-- he held up a hand to stop her. He had an idea; he just needed to hear the helmeted guy talk. He gestured to Nat; she nodded. He reached for his quiver. He almost never got to use this arrowhead.

He nocked it, leaned out of cover, and shot down the corridor, arrow skimming near the ceiling. It disappeared out of sight; there was a _thock_ as it found something to stick in. He tapped the riser of his bow. Faint _beeps_ echoed from down the corridor.

“What the...” the helmeted guy muttered. “Davie, Li, go check that out. They could be breaking through from above.”

“Got it, boss.”

Nat raised her eyebrows; Clint nodded. She slipped past and snuck down the corridor, moving so silently that Clint wasn’t sure his ears were working. She came up behind the helmeted guy, got a hand over his mouth, another at the base of his neck, and twisted, breaking his neck with a soft _crack_. She dragged the corpse back with remarkably little noise. Clint was already stripping out of his clothes. _I didn’t even need new pants_. He peeled the clothes off of the corpse and struggled into them. The man had barely even been armed, only a long knife along one leg and an old-fashioned revolver on the other hip. He handed his quiver and bow to Nat, jammed the helmet over his head, and hurried back into position.

He heard a faint dragging sound as Nat got the corpse farther down the corridor, muffled by the helmet. It impeded his vision, too, which he hated. But hopefully it would keep the other two from noticing he wasn’t their real boss. _This better work better than in Frankfurt._

He found keys in his new pockets and hunted through them until he found one that matched the manufacturer’s name on the lock. Nat reappeared at the corner; the other two women were still out of sight. He nodded.

Nat sprang forward across the corridor. They made it look real, in case the other two turned around in the middle; after a moment, she collapsed at his feet. “HEY! I caught an intruder, I’m taking her inside!” He tried to make his voice as much like the dead man’s as he could. “You guys stay up there, I think it’s a trap!” He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and dragged Nat inside.

It was a big room, inside, and there were four hospital beds along one wall— with shackles. He consciously kept himself from clenching his hands, because both of them were on Natasha. Each bed was occupied; the men were in rough shape, and looked like they might have been homeless. There were seven others inside. Three were eating in the corner; two were checking on the prisoners; one was working at a computer; and one, a tall woman in a lab coat, was listening over the phone.

They all turned to stare at Clint. “I caught an _archer_ outside.” He leaned down and took his bow and quiver out of Nat’s limp hands. “In a _cocktail_ dress. She doesn’t look like the police.”

The tall woman stared down. “Do any of you recognize her?”

Most of them shuffled closer for a better look. “Never seen her before in my life,” the man at the computer said.

“Does she have any ID on her?”

Clint shook his head. “No. But this is a serious bow.”

“They’re all clean,” reported the young woman who’d been checking on the four prisoners. “The worst of it’s out of their system. The police won’t be able to prove anything, even if they take us.”

“Good.”

“Should I start dumping the chemicals?” One of the women glanced at the far wall, where a bunch of plastic bottles were stacked next to a drain.

“Not… yet. Wait. We might… we still have cards on the table.”

If those were the chemicals S.H.I.E.L.D. had tracked all the way from Culver, then pouring them down the drain would probably be bad.

The tall woman pressed a button on the phone. “What do you mean by sending an archer to kill us?” she demanded. Pause. “I don’t believe you,” she said flatly. Another pause. “Then if she’s not yours, I’ll just kill her.”

They didn’t need the police for this, or even S.H.I.E.L.D. Every moment that went by was a moment that the guys in the beds weren’t getting help, and were liable to be shot to make a point to the police. He nudged Nat with his foot. There were two shotguns, a rifle, and three pistols on the table, and the man still standing by the prisoners had a pistol on each hip. Clint didn’t see much ammo anywhere, though. None of the weapons were designed for combat— the rifles were for hunting, not military-grade. _What did they do, raid their parents’ gun cabinets?_

A quick glance down showed that Nat, still convincingly unconscious, had her palms pressed against the floor, ready to move. He turned over the bow and quiver as if he were studying it, and tapped out a pattern idly on the riser. The quiver _click-whirr_ ed, too soft for anyone to notice. He slid his arm into the strap, pulled the arrow free, nocked it, brought the bow up, and shot the man with the pistols, in one fluid motion.

Nat was a blur of motion as soon as she heard the shot. He nocked another arrow. The woman nearest the table saw him, turned, mouth gaping, and fumbled for a weapon. He pinned her hand to the table. She screamed. _I wouldn’t pull that loose, you’ve got important blood vessels in there_. But it wasn’t his problem.

That was four. He shot the tall woman with his last remaining tranq arrow as she grabbed a chair to throw at him. One woman raised her hands in something that might have been surrender, or just a foolish, useless defensive gesture; Nat stabbed her. Clint nocked another arrow, then held his fire as Nat got there first. The last man toppled to the ground, unconscious or maybe dead.

Footsteps pounded in the corridor. The door flew open; Clint’s arrow passed through the woman right outside, propelling her back against the wall. He tapped his earpiece. “We’re all clear here, move in any time.” _Up there_ , the kid back by the tunnel had said— how many others were there?

“What do you mean ‘clear here’?” Vaughn demanded.

“All the targets in the room and most on the rear lines are neutralized. There’s no one back here left to kill the hostages. The cops can clear out everybody in front.” He hesitated. “But you and Denny need to come through first.” They weren’t undercover; he and Nat were. He and Nat needed not to have their faces seen, and they needed S.H.I.E.L.D. to stop any of the survivors from IDing them.

“Copy that.”

Clint locked the door. They tied up all the survivors. The woman with her hand pinned to the table had passed out, from shock or blood loss. Nat checked the prisoners. Three were unconscious; one was groaning softly. He went through the keys until he found the one to the shackles, but he hesitated. They had no idea what the torturing fucks had done to these guys. If they panicked, not knowing where they were, they could do a lot of damage. To themselves, or each other.

Nat seemed to be thinking the same thing. “They’re unconscious.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself of something. Clint nodded.

The groaning grew louder. The man opened his eyes and focused on Clint. “Please. Please, help me.”

Clint went to the man’s side. “Hey, it’s okay. The police are coming, and they’re going to take care of you. It’s over, okay?”

“Please,” he moaned.

Tentatively, Clint raised his hand, and stroked the old guy’s forehead. It was dry and papery. “It’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you any more.”

“Hawkeye.” Nat’s voice was sharp. “You don’t know what they—“

“The woman who checked them wasn’t wearing gloves.”

Nat shrugged.

The old man sank back into unconsciousness. At least he wasn’t incoherent and scared that way.

They heard shots fired outside, but they were distant. The woman with the tranq arrow in her shoulder stirred. Her eyes focused on Clint. “You sons of a bitch,” she spat. “You’re _worse_ than the police. We were doing it to help people! We want them to see that what they’re doing is—“

Clint nocked an arrow without consciously thinking about it. “If you say another word,” he said, “I will shoot you again.”

The woman fell silent.

“You fucking psychopath, don’t _ever_ do something awful and then claim it was for someone else.”

After a minute or two, the doorknob rattled. Clint’s earpiece beeped. “Barton, Romanoff, it’s Vaughn. Alone.” He rattled off a S.H.I.E.L.D. passphrase.

Clint let him in. Vaughn looked around, and his eyebrows went up. “Denny's with the police. They’ll be here any minute.”

“Then we’re leaving,” Nat said.

“What am I going to tell the police? They wanted to take these guys alive!”

Clint shrugged. “Some of them are alive. Hey. Make sure the old guys get the care they need.” He stared at Vaughn until the other man nodded, then handed over the keys.

They slipped out the way they’d come. At the body of the first man they'd killed, Clint swapped back to his own clothes. The two kids were still unconscious by the tunnel entrance; Nat sent Vaughn their location.

The building at the other end was far enough away that no one was looking their way. Vaughn had left his S.H.I.E.L.D. car parked away from the building, so they considerately stole it and returned it to the police station for him, where their car was waiting. “I'll drive,” Nat said.

He tossed her the keys.

They stopped on the way out of town for coffee. Clint pulled off his shoes and put his feet up on the dash. His dinner was still in the back seat. He poked around in the glove compartment until he found plastic tableware, and dug in.

“’s not right that your own side falls for the stuff you do to get your work done,” he said after a while.

“They didn’t fall for anything. I didn’t make them see anything they didn’t want to see.”

He remembered something she’d said, way back in Alabama. _Most people just look at me and see what they want to see_. “I know you can take care of yourself,” he said finally, and sank a little deeper in the seat. “But I also know some things can really screw with your head, so if you ever want me to run interference for you, I will.”

He expected her to snap at him, but she just said: “Thanks.”

Clint closed his eyes, but he didn’t try to sleep. It was a relief to be Clint again, without anyone overlaid on top of him. It showed how fucked up he was that he found it more relaxing to be a cold-blooded killer than a mild-mannered and harmless suburbanite.

“You don’t usually go after our targets when they start monologuing,” Nat said when they reached the Illinois tollway.

Clint didn’t say anything.

Nat didn’t say anything, either. But he could feel her watching.

“When I ran away from foster care, I was eleven,” he said finally, reluctantly. _I thought story time was over_. “My brother was fourteen. They had him in a juvie home. It was pretty terrible.”

“Still don’t know how he convinced the ringmaster to take us in. But he did, he worked real hard, this fourteen-year-old kid with his kid brother tagging along, made some money, kept us fed, even got an old beat-up station wagon somehow, and got it running again. We lived there for the next six years.”

Clint shrugged. “Couple of the performers, they were interested in me, but they said he was too old to learn. I’m not sure that was true, or just an excuse. He did odd jobs for the circus, and wherever we stopped for a few days. Kept us fed. Kept us clothed. It wasn’t much, but…”

“Point is, I never wondered how a fifteen, sixteen, seventeen-year-old boy managed to make enough money doing that kind of thing to buy gas, and food, and clothes for two people. Especially when both of ‘em were growing. They paid me for what I did— more, as I got older and brought in more crowds— but most of it fell on him. And I, I never thought about it. I just let him… take all the responsibility.”

He rubbed his hands across his face. He felt old, and tired, and he didn’t know why the fuck he was telling Nat any of this. “When I was seventeen, I found out that my _mentors_ — the Swordsman, and another guy, Trick Shot— they were both robbing people at every big town we stopped at. Sometimes they conned ‘em, sometimes it was just straight burglary. I threatened to report ‘em to the police, and my brother told me not to. Said he’d go down, too. I found out he’d been working with them for years. _Years_. That’s how he’d kept us fed. Me. Fed and clothed.” He shrugged. “I didn’t report them.” He’d tried to _stop_ them, but that wasn’t a story that he felt like telling, not even in his bizarrely communicative state. “Ran away. Became a merc. That’s how that went.”

The silence stretched out, with his life story laid out right there in the car, for Natasha to remember and pick apart.

“After Krakow.” Her voice startled him. “Before Amsterdam. I was convinced the Red Room had implanted a tracker in me.”

“I’d taken a freight train out of Krakow. I was confused, had no idea what was going on. But there was one thing clear in my mind, that they were coming after me. I got off in Debrecen and found a hospital big enough to have an MRI unit. I faked an equipment accident to keep the technician there, at the end of the day. And then I tried to seduce him into scanning me.”

It was her history, and he knew that, but it was still hard, to listen when she told him these stories. But he didn’t want her to stop— and if she trusted him with them, if she wanted to tell them, he wouldn’t say a word.

“That’s not something I fail at very often,” she said thoughtfully. “But I— was a mess. I don’t really know how he saw me, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t sexy. I thought he was going to call security. Instead he motioned for me to climb in the machine.”

“He gave me the results and let me delete them off the computer, and then took me home with him. I thought he’d changed his mind about the sex. He gave me dinner and a bed, and enough money to get out of the country.” She paused. “We barely spoke enough of each other’s languages to get by. I don’t even know his last name. He was just Bela.” Another pause. “I went to Amsterdam from there.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked after a few minutes.

She hesitated. “You wouldn’t have told me about your brother if I hadn’t asked.”

No, he wouldn’t have. Her story sat in the dark next to his, and he didn’t feel quite so... exposed.

They got back to the house around three. Nat had to get up three hours later; Nancy Saunders certainly hadn't spent her night breaking up a ring of torturers. Clint couldn't sleep after she left. He felt bad, lounging around the house while she went right back to the mission. That was the only way he felt bad, though. He didn’t feel like throwing up, and his leg had barely twinged the night before. _I’m fine, Coulson, can I go back to being a real grown-up spy now?_

In lieu of that, he bought food. The store was full of moms and their young kids, and a few dads and their young kids, and all the kids were hyperactive. He only escaped when his head was starting to spin with trying to keep track of every person in his field of vision.

As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, he knew something was off. He smelled something foreign. Just a wisp, a hint of cologne, or something. He put the bags down on the counter with a _thunk_ and listened, in the echoes, for anything out of place. The scent was weaker in the dining room.

The door to the basement was locked-- check there later. He moved through the house, looking and listening. Something was out of place in the living room— yes. There was a bit of dirt on the back of the sofa, that hadn’t been there before. He looked closer, and saw the tread of a shoe. He looked up, and saw the bug planted in the molding near the ceiling. Microphone only, no camera.

He checked the rest of the house. There was one in the bedroom, too. He had to leave them-- Craig Saunders never would have noticed them. If he had, he would have panicked and called the police instead of calmly destroying them. Clint searched the basement and made sure it was empty. When he came back up the stairs, he saw the bug wedged above the refrigerator. He went to get the bug finder to sweep the house—

The bug finder. Their equipment. _Damn it_. It looked undisturbed, but he couldn’t be sure. The rifle was stashed behind a panel in the closet adjacent to the bathtub. He used flour and packing tape to dust the knob for prints. He smushed the tape onto some dark cardboard leftover from the furniture, and texted the pictures to Coulson. _Are these anyone but us?_

He went over the house with the bug finder and confirmed that it was only the three. He put the abandoned groceries away, and tried to see if slamming the refrigerator door would produce enough vibration to knock the bug loose. It didn’t.

Coulson got back to him a few hours later. _A partial print from one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who initially swept the house_.

Okay, that was reassuring. If they'd found any of the caches, they would have turned the place upside down looking for more.

He went out. He needed to think, and he hated having someone eavesdropping. It also gave him a chance to watch for occupied cars parked nearby, or cruising at low speeds. Someone had to have been watching the house to know that he had left.

Finally he went back and started dinner, a few minutes before Nat got home. He met her at the door. “Hi, baby.” He tugged her into the kitchen, kissed her firmly— and audibly— and pointed at the bug.

She followed the direction of his finger, and her eyebrow went up. “Hey there,” she said. “I'm exhausted. That smells fantastic, what is it?”

“Rib-eye. It was on sale at the grocery store.” Clint and Craig both smirked with satisfaction. They shared the same feelings about the necessity of regular doses of meat.

“I suppose once can’t hurt. I’m going to get changed, these shoes are killing me.”

Clint caught her wrist. He pointed to the living room, then upstairs, and folded his hands together, miming putting his head on a pillow. Then he put his hands together and made scurrying motions with his fingers. Nat nodded.

“How was _your_ day?” Nancy asked over dinner. She picked up a pen, and scribbled on the back of a piece of junk mail: _The timing’s not coincidence._

“It was fine. I bought groceries. I went for a walk. I did some job-hunting online.” He shook his head. “Really wish I could find something.”

“You’ll get there, honey. And we’re okay on my salary for a while, especially with this raise.”

 _How can we use it to feed him false information?_ he scribbled at the same time. It was easier to write while she was talking; trying to do both at the same time ran the risk of saying something he meant to put on paper. “This isn’t very exciting.”

 _Office gossip_ , she scribbled back. “Have you thought about volunteering? It would give you something to do.”

“I’m not enthusiastic about the thought of sitting in nursing homes all day.”

She made a non-committal noise. “You’ll figure something out.”

“I haven't had anyone to talk to all day, I need you to entertain me,” he said after a few bites. “What happened with the coworkers you thought were embezzling?”

Nat smiled appreciatively. “It turned out there was a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

“What?”

“They were screwing in the supply closet.”

Clint and Craig both choked. Not a bad line— if it was Pendrist on the other end, then he’d want to know who they were talking about, if only to be sure that he _was_ the only embezzler in the office.

“I know, right? I can think of a lot of things that get _me_ hotter than office supplies.”

“Mmm,” Craig said thoughtfully. “Glass houses and all. Remember the time at the conference that we almost got caught by the keynote speaker, but he was so drunk he didn’t even know what was going on?”

“Oh, God.” Nancy laughed. “We were young and stupid.”

“Well, we’re still young, and maybe later I can refresh your memory.” He had to choke back his own laughter at saying things like this— and saying them to _Natasha_ , or someone who at least shared brain space with her.

“Maybe you can,” Nancy agreed, with a hint of the purr that he’d heard her use on foolish men. And that was something else-- were they going to have to fake sex?

It took him a long time to fall asleep, aware as he was of the bug recording their every noise. He didn't talk in his sleep, but all it took was one slip-up. He'd been able to half-ass being Craig so far, but now he would have to be in character every single minute. He felt like the walls were closing in.

He spent most of the next day out of the house, hoping R&D would come up with a solution that would allow them to kill all the bugs without raising any suspicion, but they didn't have anything for him yet. He had the same trouble falling asleep-- only to wake up because the bed was shaking.

He reached for his gun, then realized the bed was shaking because Nat was shaking. He knew the practice she had, sleeping through horrific nightmares. Whatever this was, it was bad.

Her eyes were squeezed close, her breathing unsteady. She gasped something that could have been “Tonya.” As he was trying to figure out how to get the gun under her pillow away from her before he woke her, she lunged forward, and fell off the bed.

She gasped again when she hit the floor and woke up. It didn't take a lot of imagination to figure out her dream. He flattened himself on the mattress and stretched out to give her a hand up. She actually took it, and when he pulled her to her feet, she looked awful-- old, tired, sweating. She sank down on the mattress, heels of her hands dug into her eye sockets. There was nothing he could say, not with the bug recording their every noise. She opened her eyes again. He raised his hand to brush the sweaty hair back from her forehead-- and then pulled back.

After a minute or two she got up and went into the bathroom, where she ran the tap. She came back, hands and face glistening with water, and got back into bed. He caught her eye and raised his eyebrows: _You okay?_

She shrugged. _Fine_.

Yeah, ‘fine.’ He screwed up his eyebrows, giving her her own “Oh really” stare.

Her eyes widened. _Fine_ , she mouthed clearly.

If she wasn’t, they couldn’t exactly have an extended conversation about it. He rolled onto his back. Suddenly, she rolled over to his side of the bed, resting her forehead against the outside of his arm. One arm was stretched up onto the pillow; she put the other across his hips. Her breathing slowed more, back to normal.

But she wasn't asleep, and neither was he. She'd tried to do the right thing by Tonya-- but he had the scars to prove that thinking something was right didn't necessarily make it so. They neither of them had fully functional moral compasses. He'd not gone after Tonya as fast as he could because he'd assumed that Nat would stop her. Did that mean he had some of Tonya's blood on his hands, for trusting Nat? If his head had gotten fucked up like in the Red Room, would Nat have let him kill himself?

He reached out for the blanket and tugged it over both of them. He'd noticed that she liked to be warm. And he... didn't dislike having her stretched out against his right side like a large heater.

He got tired of trying to figure out if she was still awake, and fell asleep himself.

*

He woke up when she moved. He got far enough to realize that she wasn’t having another nightmare, and that she was making more noise than she needed to, which meant she was trying to wake him up. Then she leaned over him, half on top of him, and kissed him.

The kiss dragged on. He had _no idea_ what was going on-- but he trusted her. He made himself relax against the pillow, tangled his fingers through her hair, and kissed her back. She was making soft pleased noises, so he did, too. Then she moaned. He didn't want to be doing this, he knew she didn't, but with her plastered on top of him, he was getting a _very_ close look at the way Natasha considered her body cannon fodder for her cover stories. It made him uneasy, and confused. _I hope you voyeurs are appreciating this_.

She rolled off of him. “Shower with me, baby?” Her voice was sultry, and loud enough for the bug to pick up.

“Mmm.” He leaned up, kissed her again— audibly— and followed her into the bathroom.

He closed the door; she turned on the water. The door and the running water— Then Nat turned her back and dropped her pajamas on the floor.

Right, okay, the running water wouldn’t be as much use if they were between it and the bug, and it would look suspicious if they showered afterwards. He could always skip a day’s shower and sit outside the stall while Nat washed. But she could just as easily have waited outside while _he_ showered first, and instead, she’d stripped and climbed into the tub.

He’d asked her where her boundaries were, and she’d looked as if she hadn’t even understood the question. He thought… that she had decided where they were going to be and then stuck firmly to that decision, regardless of discomfort, rather than take her own preferences into account. As a global rule, not just for this mission. He’d watched her take beatings stoically— deliberately— and then tremble afterwards. Just because she was doing something, didn’t mean she was okay with it.

He didn’t like this either. But he could match her courage with his own.

Nat was holding the shower curtain aside. “Are you o—“

“Yeah.” He stripped out of his underwear and ducked into the shower. She was already wet, so he stood under the spray until she passed him the shampoo. It wasn’t that he had a problem with Nat seeing him naked— he wasn’t thrilled about it, but if it had to be anyone, it should be her— or, even, that he had a problem seeing Nat naked. He’d seen large parts of her before anyway, had sewn her back together, even, and he had no desire to stare. He was pretty sure he didn’t make her uncomfortable. But that didn’t mean _she_ didn’t have a problem with this. He wanted to trust that she could look out for her own boundaries, he really did, but their second mission together, he’d watched her let herself get beaten for ten minutes. If her boundaries were significantly farther out than he was comfortable with, that was his problem, not hers, wasn’t it? But her boundaries hadn’t been set with particular attention to her _own_ comfort.

“I need a week,” she said. “Then I can move. I need to hack Pendrist's email and send him a message he can't trace.”

He lathered his hair, and reached past to grab his washcloth. “What do you need from me?”

She traded him the soap for the shampoo. He washed his body, quickly and efficiently. “I need time. Someone's getting suspicious, and I don't know why. Nothing I've done should have tipped anyone off. We should have some conversations about how I don’t feel like I’ve learned the ropes yet,” she said. “That might alleviate some suspicion. And I’ll mention that some of my co-workers are acting oddly, try to cast the suspicion elsewhere.”

They rotated, back-to-back, so he could rinse. He reached for the faucet, then stopped. They needed the cover of the noise until they were done talking. “What else?”

She shrugged. “Can you keep it together for a few more days?”

He gave her a disbelieving look. He was a _professional_ , he wasn’t going to give up now. “Yeah.”

“This is not the time to tell me what you think I want to hear. This is the time to be honest while you can.”

“Look, obviously this is not my favorite thing that I’ve ever done, but I trust you, and I trust that… okay, we’ve done much worse than this, we can come back from this.”

“Are you sure?”

“This is pretty... pretty weird. But I trust you. There’s no one I’d rather share fake shower sex with more.”

He thought that was going too far, but she snorted. He let the corner of his mouth curve up, even though she couldn’t see him.

“If they think we’re fucking in the shower, they won’t get suspicious when we don’t in the bedroom,” she said. “I can fake that, but I don’t think you want to.”

“I think I can manage.” Not so long ago, he would have been kind of horrified at the thought of having to make convincing sex noises… but this whole thing was so ridiculous that now, his biggest problem would be not laughing.

“We’ll keep that as Plan Z.”

“What are plans A through Y?”

“I’m not sure. Some of them involve streaming porn over S.H.I.E.L.D.’s secure connection.”

Clint choked at that, picturing Coulson’s face, picturing _Fury’s_ face. “Do any of these plans allow me to keep a straight face?”

“Probably not.” She paused. “Was there anything else?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

He leaned down to turn the water off, but she stopped him. “It hasn’t been long enough to be convincing.”

His eyebrows went up. “So we’re just going to stand here in the shower until it’s been long enough to satisfy someone’s imaginary conception of our imaginary stamina?” _Wait, that came out wrong—_

“We can get out. We just can’t talk.” She stepped out, grabbed her towel, dried herself quickly, and wrapped it around herself. He waited until she was done to get out and grab his own towel. They sat side-by-side on the edge of the tub, their backs to the shower curtain. _This isn’t awkward at all._

He looked around the bathroom, and his gaze landed on the little lamp on the counter. He switched it on, then turned off the overhead light. Nat tilted her head and frowned: _What?_

He grinned and made sure his towel was secure around his waist without his hands. Then he stuck his hands in the beam of light and ran through his repertoire of shadow puppets. It’d been a long time since he’d done this, for a bunch of little kids who’d run out of a particular act because it was too scary— the customers’d thought the act’s star was death-defying and brave, but Clint had known he was just drunk. But it was like riding a bicycle. Well, okay, it had absolutely nothing to do with riding a bicycle, except that you never forgot how once you learned.

Nat had her face in her hands, watching through her fingers, and her shoulders were shaking. She hid her eyes, and shook her head. She stood up—

—and her hand came towards his head, high and to the left.

His arm came up and knocked her hand away, hard. He found himself on his feet, arm still raised defensively, adrenaline electrifying his veins. Nat stared, frozen, hands deliberately opened. His brain caught up with him, and filled in the rest of her movement: a playful nudge. Aimed at his shoulder. Because they couldn’t talk.

He lowered his arm and retrieved his towel. Then he backed up, because Nat had restrained her own instincts there and prevented something really stupid from happening, but backing her up against a wall and making her feel threatened was _never_ a good idea.

She was still looking at him, eyes— _dammit, Nat, don’t look at me like that._

 _I’m sorry_ , she mouthed.

He raised his hands— hand— and shook his head, trying to communicate _It’s fine_ and _In no way do I want to speak about this_ in the same gesture. She took a slow step forward, then another, hands where he could see them, and reached up, carefully, so he could track and predict her every movement. She put her hand on his cheek— apology, pity, something he shouldn’t allow.

He closed his eyes for a minute— just for a minute. Then he opened them, covered her hand with his, and gently pulled them both away.

She reached over and turned the tap off.

 _Oh God,_ _this job_. Then he opened the door and stepped into the cool air on the other side.

Nat stumbled against the door frame, then straightened up, laughing. “Oh God. Oh wow. Craig.”

The sudden change in mood caught him and threw him. But he managed to make his voice light, uneven, when he agreed, “Yeah. _Yeah._ ” He couldn’t— he was caught in the boundary between Craig and Clint, and that wasn’t a good place to be.

Nat knew. Of course she knew, that he couldn’t act that particular part, right now. “Damn, the time, I’m gonna be late.” She grabbed her bathrobe and disappeared into the closet.

He pulled on a clean pair of boxers and a T-shirt, and headed downstairs. She wasn’t really going to be late, she had plenty of time, but he needed something to do. He needed to be Clint, and if he went downstairs and kept his mouth shut, he could manage it. He turned the coffee maker on and poked through the refrigerator for something to eat, not really seeing any of his options.

Nat came down fifteen minutes later. “Gotta run, baby, I’ll see you tonight.” She tugged her heels on, wriggled into her coat, and grabbed her bag. He handed her a thermos of coffee. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.” Standing directly under the bug— of course— she put her free arm around the back of his neck, leaned up, and kissed him.

He put his arms around her, in his role as good husband, and then— tightened them. Just for a minute. And held her. He half-expected her to push him away, but she didn’t.

 _I’m an assassin. She’s an assassin. We are weapons. There should be no comfort here_. And yet there was.

He let go and stepped back, self-conscious, scared to meet her gaze. But Natasha disappeared into Nancy. “Have a good day, baby.”

“Yeah. You too.” And then she was gone.

He didn't stay long after she left. He needed _out_ \-- of the mission, of being Craig Saunders, preferably, but out of the house was as good as he was going to get. He was starting to forget who he was. When he woke up in the middle of the night, confused why there was someone else’s breathing in his ears, or reached for something at the grocery store that he normally bought himself, the lines blurred and then vanished altogether, and he couldn’t remember where he was, or when. He was living a life where he had the things he'd never had as a kid-- normalcy, a non-violent home life-- and it was strangling him.

A week. He could do this for another week.

Right?

He stayed out most of the day, getting home only shortly before Natasha. He handed her the takeout menus, but she shook her head.

“I feel like being bad. Do you want to go out for ice cream?”

“Ice cream? Now?”

“Or to that bakery down the street. You could use a break from cooking, couldn't you?”

 _Translation: get out of the house where we can talk freely_. “Sure, let me get my coat.”

Neither of them spoke until they were a couple blocks from the house. “Are you all right?” Nat asked.

“I’m fine.” Pause. “You didn’t have to drag us both out here because you were _concerned_ about my mental health.”

“Just cut the shit.” She sounded tired. “I’m not used to watching out for someone else’s… someone else’s detachment, as well as my own.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I'll be _fine_.”

“You _mean_ something to me,” she snapped. “Do you understand what that feels like? Do you understand how hard I have to work to convince myself that’s all right? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He didn’t want to do this, not for real, with Natasha and Clint instead of Nancy and Craig. So he bit back a snappish retort of his own. “I know.” The light changed, and he pressed the accelerator— gently, because he was a normal, boring, dull suburbanite now, not someone who got into car chases for a living.

It was cold enough out that they were the only customers who sat on the patio. Clint got a banana split. Nat got mint chocolate chip.

“I've never had a job where I felt this useless.”

“You're not useless.” She licked her spoon clean and dug it into her ice cream again. “They chose you because they thought it’d make it easier for me. You playing the other half.”

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

He knew that voice. “Tasha.”

“Mostly.” This time it sounded true. “I trust you more than I would anyone else.”

Was that actually a high bar? “Whatever happens… we can stop being these ridiculous suburbanites later, and pick up all the pieces. Go back to Clint and Natasha again.”

After a minute: “This job is really screwing with your head, isn’t it?”

He could easily deny it. But he’d be a hypocrite. “Yeah.”

“Do you know what it is? Pretending to be married? Pretending to be married to me?”

It was those things, too, but— “Pretending to be _normal._ All my life, I wondered what it was like, and now I find out it’s terrible. It’s _boring_. These people are—“ _as messed up as we are_ wasn’t right, but it was more right than he’d ever expected. “They got their own problems.”

“Everyone has their own problems.”

“I know. I just thought, if you got to be normal, you got to be happy.”

“Normal’s a lie.”

He looked at her. Had she never, like him, dreamed of something else? Of being normal? “You really believe that?”

“I do.”

And he believed her. She reached across and took his hand, and he wasn’t sure if it was Nancy or Natasha. “Want a bite?”

He reached across with his spoon, snagged a large chunk of ice cream, and added it to the slowly-melting mush-soup that was the remains of his banana split. “Help yourself, if you want some.”

She looked at his bowl, and wrinkled her eyebrows at him. “I’ll pass.” She took her time over the last of her own ice cream, and looked like she was enjoying it. Then she took a small tablet from her coat pocket. “I got this. I hijacked a secure patch push from IT. I think it's the last piece we need.”

He turned it so he could see it, and she shifted closer to him, leaning over his shoulder and resting her chin on the edge of his trapezius. He didn't know if it was because she wanted to be there, or she thought Nancy Saunders would be there. And he couldn't ask, because she wouldn't welcome him second-guessing her.

He studied the screen, trying to figure out what was there and put it in the context of everything else they knew. It wasn't unlike finding a complicated shot pattern in the middle of a crowded battle. “They've been covering their tracks good.”

“But these six billion? Completely unaccounted for. I've broken into every single ledger in the place.”

“Shell games,” he murmured, remembering previous accounts she'd brought home. “You think they'll be able to clean this up in a week?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. But I can't rush it. We've done too much to blow it now.”

He finished the last bite, then tipped the bowl back to catch the remaining drops. Then he abandoned pretense and just licked it clean. The outside trash can was overflowing, so he took the bowls inside. When he came back out, Natasha had company-- a man standing by the table, chatting her up. It was pretty cold for passersby to be just wandering the plaza. Had the man been watching them? Was he just a garden-variety lech, or had someone sent him?

Her body language indicated discomfort, and her answers were clipped. Natasha could take care of herself, but she wasn't being Natasha right now. And Clint could just as easily send the guy on his way, but Craig wasn't Clint.

“Ready to go, honey?” he asked, sliding between the strange man and her. His back prickled at letting a probable hostile directly behind him. He gave Nancy a hand up, then cupped her cheek and kissed her. After a minute, the man behind him muttered something under his breath and shuffled off.

Neither of them broke character until they were back in the car and a mile down the road. “I didn't think you had it in you to play possessive.”

“I'm not a shrinking violet.”

“I didn't say you were.”

“Beginning to understand what people mean when they say 'it feels like kissing your sister,'” he said after another block.

“Has it ever not felt like kissing your sister?”

Her tone was just curious, not judgmental, but he knew how well she lied. It wasn’t the kind of question he would answer, even to her, but this mission was changing the rules about everything. “I meant the weird feeling of familiarity.” He dared her to point out he wasn’t answering.

“Still, you have to admit.”

“What?” he snapped.

Her sidelong glance told him that had not gone unnoticed. “That if you were going to be any kind of shrinking flower, you'd want to be violet.”

He relaxed his grip on the wheel. “You bring _one_ pair of purple underwear on a mission,” he said to the air, “and your partner never lets you live it down.”

“You brought three.”

“Same thing.”

“That's what I'm here for-- to give you a hard time. Besides.” Her expression turned pitying. “If you think _that_ was the first time I noticed the purple, Barton, I have a bridge I'd like to sell you.”

*

The next morning he opened his eyes and thought, _six days_.

Natasha-- Nancy-- was moving around beside him. He wriggled in the pillows. They were comfortable. Maybe he could steal them when this damn mission was finally over. Write them off as missing, presumed cushy. “What’s on for today?”

She yawned. “Brunch with the neighbors at noon. We’re taking dessert.”

“Right. The brownies.” He reached for his phone and checked the time. “’s eight. I might go for a run. It’s supposed to be nice today.”

“Maybe you should work out in the basement instead.”

He looked over. “Why?”

“Because _I’m_ going to work out in the basement,” Nancy purred.

He choked back laughter. That was an attractive proposition, but not for the reason their listeners would assume. “You've gotten tired of regular old beds?”

“Well… I wouldn’t want life to be _boring_.” Nat’s smirk looked out through Nancy’s face.

He smiled back, slow and satisfied. “Anything but that.” He threw back the covers, grabbed a pair of sweatpants, and followed her downstairs.

They closed the basement door to muffle the noises, and keep the listeners from noticing they were athletic and not sexual. He stretched. He was out of practice, and sparring with Natasha was asking for injury at the best of times. That was why he liked it.

They squared off, and circled each other. He let everything fall away, and dissolved into the fight, into survival. Nat wouldn’t kill him— but she could. And he wouldn’t kill her— but he could. It was a dance of trust, but with pain and suffering.

He lunged forward and struck at her left side, swiping at her eyes at the same time. He fought dirty. He knew she appreciated it. What good was sparring if you didn’t treat it as practice for the real thing? It was an attitude that made other agents wary of both of them in the gym.

He tried again. She blocked harder this time. His arm stung— she kept coming forward on her momentum. She punched hard at his solar plexus. He blocked, circled his arm around hers where they were in contact, grabbed her arm, and flipped her to the ground. She did something physically impossible with her legs and knocked his out from under him, taking him with her. He landed on top and found himself on the bottom faster than he could follow. He brought his knees up before she could consolidate her hold, kneed her hard, and kept rolling, to his feet.

He had reach and weight on her, but she was faster and more flexible. He stayed just out of her striking distance as they circled, feinting, making her expend energy to block him. She lunged forward, landed a solid hit, and took advantage of his split second of stunned recovery to flip him over her back and put him on the ground. She twisted, already following—

 _Pain later, move now_. It was the primary rule of fighting with her. The objective was to take her down before she got enough hits in that you couldn’t ignore the pain any more. He rolled out of the way. She managed to convert her lunge into a flip that took her behind him as he got to his feet. He dropped, grabbed behind him blindly, and took advantage of his greater size and strength to throw her over his head. As soon as his hands left her, he rolled forward, trying to take her off guard. He got an arm across her throat and reached across to pin her more thoroughly— she sandwiched, and kicked him in the _back_.

He groaned, rolling away. “That’s a new one.”

She smirked. “New to _you_.” Then she charged forward— he caught her arm as she struck, held it hard, caught her other arm, and flipped her before she could kick at his torso. Or his balls. But she got her hands under her, caught him with her legs as she fell, and took him down, too.

She fell solidly on top of him, pinned both of his arms above his head, and got her knee right above his pubic bone. “Yield?”

He pulled his arms together, stretching her out and off-balance, and surged up, leading with his chest, so her knee wouldn’t— _nnggh._ He rolled them and pinned her the same way, but with his knee and calf across the top of her thighs. “Yi— _aah!_ ” He saw darkness and vivid colors when her head smashed into his. _Pain— later— move—_

It devolved into a wrestling match. He should have had the advantage there, but somehow he never did. She got him on his stomach, face smushed into the floor, arms held at an awkward angle behind his back, legs held down by her full body weight as she kneeled on them. “Yield?”

He grunted, twisted halfway, and rolled forward, throwing her off and bringing his arms down to the floor for purchase to flip forward the rest of the way— and she tackled him squarely in the stomach, taking him right back down again. “You’re indestructible,” he gasped, which was a bad idea, because she’d knocked the wind out of him and he needed his breath for _breathing_ , not feeding her ego. “Yield, God, yield.”

She got to her feet, as fluidly and gracefully as if he hadn’t landed any blows at all, and offered her hand to help him up. “Don’t worry. It’s natural for flexibility and reaction times to decline with age.”

He gave her a disgruntled look. “You are a _terrible_ human being.”

“You say that like it’s news.”

“More to the point, you’re only three years younger than I am.”

“Yes. And I will _always_ be three years younger than you.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to see you take on Coulson. And he’s forty-three.”

“I did.”

“What? When? I missed this?”

“After Vladivostok. You were in Lima.”

“What happened?”

She gave him a _really?_ look. “I won.”

He waited.

“… barely,” she admitted. “He’s _fast_.”

“Uh-huh.” Clint had only ever managed to talk Coulson into the ring once. That Clint had won might have something to do with that. “Shall we go upstairs and pretend to be well-fucked?”

She sighed, looking predatory but satisfied. “That wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.” She started for the stairs.

“Hey,” he said. “I didn't ask--” He waited until she came back. “Can _you_ see this through?”

She looked frustrated. “Do you trust me to tell you if you’re making me uncomfortable?”

He recalled his train of thought about her boundaries, days ago. “Uh… no.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “God, Clint, I’m not a _child_.”

“No. Neither of us ever really were, were we? Let’s not bother pretending we’re normal here.”

The tightness of her expression eased a little, perhaps in acknowledgement of his point. “I trust you enough that I would tell you,” she said, “if it were— us. Not a mission.”

What else could he do, besides believe her? And she _had_ told him before, in Frankfurt, and when he’d pressed her about her boundaries. He nodded, and followed her up the stairs.

He was more prepared than last time to pretend they’d just had sex. “God, I need a shower,” Nat panted.

He waggled his eyebrows in a ridiculous fashion. “Do you want company?”

“Do you think you’re up to it?” Nancy asked innocently.

“I think I could rise to the occasion.” Oh God, this was horrible, and he _loved_ terrible puns.

He turned on the coffeemaker before they went upstairs, because he had his priorities in order. This time they took turns. He sat against the wall while Nat showered, and then took his own turn.

The coffee was ready by the time they were done. He cupped his mug possessively, with both hands, and lost track of everything else for a minute. He was sleeping better now, the poison out of his system, so it was back to just his normal level of fixation. _Coffee_.

“Turn on the TV, I want to see who was eliminated last night,” Nancy said. So they left the TV on as they typed back and forth on the tablet, him explaining what else he'd found the night before.

They went to brunch. Manuel was walking fine now, Clint was glad to see. They'd bought Hunter a starter bow, and he spent the whole meal trying to convince Craig to come shoot it until Rob firmly told him to stop.

After they went home, Nancy went to the grocery store. Craig went for a drive, and just happened to swing by the houses of a few of the people he was keeping an eye on. Just a short social call. By the time he got home, it was dark.

 _Five days_ , he thought as he fell asleep.

*

 _Three days_.

He'd ripped some of the stitching in one of his shoes. Craig could get a new pair, or S.H.I.E.L.D. would replace them for Clint. But he sat down in the living room to repair it. He'd learned pretty quick, in the circus, how to keep his stuff mended. Waste not, want less.

Breaking glass-- he dove away from the sound even while realizing it was more than one window. His gun was at the small of his back, but using it on a garden-variety robber would bring scrutiny that they couldn't afford-- but a robber wouldn't be breaking windows in daylight.

“Where is he, you see him?” a male voice demanded, followed by the sound of multiple pairs of heavy boots landing inside the house. Clint flattened himself against the wall and took a knife in each hand.

“Not from the windows, probably upstairs.”

He'd been in a blind spot, on the floor out of sight from the door and the windows. Footsteps came closer--

A man appeared around the corner, tall, stocky. Clint tackled him around the knees, took him to the floor, broke the wrist of his gun hand, and rolled behind the other wall before any of the others-- there were three total-- could get off a shot. He darted into the dining room-- his bow was upstairs, but the distance to the stairs--

He hit the floor as something whistled over his head and buried itself in the wall with a _thud_. A throwing knife-- your everyday thug didn't have experience with those. And they were trying to keep this quiet, apparently. Well, Clint was willing to bet he was better with knives.

He rolled and came up, flicking one knife deep into the chest of one of the men. The man looked down in shock, then keeled over silently. Craig would have been horrified at the blood he was getting on the carpet. Clint didn't give a damn.

Two down, one temporarily-- neither of the surviving guys had made any attempt to staunch the blood coming from their coworker, which indicated again that these were professionals. Clint feinted with his last knife and got the last guy to duck, then threw it for real, getting it into the meaty part of his arm, and sprinted for the stairs. He'd be trapped up there, but his _bow_ \--

The two survivors had perfectly good legs. He barely had time to dive under the bed, grab his gear, and make it back out again before he was trapped in the bedroom. “What the _hell_?” he heard. “He said this one would be the _easy_ take!”

Clint whirled, nocking an arrow, but the two stopped just out of sight on the stairs.

“We can't waltz into the headquarters like this,” one of them muttered, panting in pain.

“Not downtown, you dumbass, the annex, with the other one.”

Their voices gave him enough information to get a fix. He fired, letting the arrow arc out of sight, and knew from the intimately familiar meaty _thock_ that it had found its target. A strangled cry, and the sound of a body falling down the stairs, confirmed it.

Would the last guy be smart enough to run, or would he think he could succeed alone where three of them had failed? Clint had his answer when a series of knives thudded methodically into the ceiling. Plaster rained down on him; he jumped back to keep it out of his eyes. Then footsteps charging up the stairs--

His arrow went clean through the guy's shoulder. The guy stumbled back from the impact, but then kept coming, somehow still lifting his gun. Clint threw himself into the spare bedroom and came up with another arrow, but ducked instinctively as the knife went right over his head, and lost a precious second to nock the arrow. This guy was _good_ \-- pain and blood loss and he was still going strong.

Clint would admire his professionalism later. Right now he had to survive. He kicked the other guy hard in the ribs as soon as he cleared the doorway, and nearly escaped a knife to the face for his trouble. He deflected a hard punch, backed up some more--

– then he was out of room.

He kicked the guy in his gun wrist and bought a few precious seconds to nock a different arrow. The guy ducked it, easily, but Clint hadn't been aiming at him. With the arrowhead embedded deep into the stud, he grabbed his bow and threw himself backwards out the window.

The shattering glass cut into his back and arms. He held tight to the bow with one hand and sheltered his eyes with the other from glass that was still falling as he swung. _Better than going through_ without _the rope_. When he was far enough, he let go and dropped onto the roof of the garage-- He grabbed two arrows and nocked them both--

The goon coming after him leaned out the window for a better shot. Clint let both arrows fly. They took him straight through the chest. He dropped his gun, and then fell out the window himself, landing with a meaty _thud_. Clint lowered his bow cautiously--

And looked over to see Manuel and Hunter staring at him from the window of their house.

 _Oh, hell_.

Manuel shoved Hunter behind him and murmured something. His expression-- _God_. Fear and anger and defiance, mixed. Something uncomfortable twisted in Clint's chest. He lowered his bow all the way and held up his other, empty, hand. This house was burnt anyway; the people on the other end of the bugs would have heard the fight. He had maybe two minutes to get out of there. Clint'd been sloppy. If he'd had his bow right with him, he could've taken all three guys without anyone being the wiser. Now they all had a lot more work to do.

He jumped off the edge of the garage, landed in a deep crouch, and opened the door. Was there anything he needed from the house? The caches-- he sprinted inside, grabbed a duffel bag, stuffed the disassembled rifle, the rest of the weapons, and the S.H.I.E.L.D. gear inside, skidded out the back door, locked it, and tossed the bag in the front seat. Manuel and Hunter were gone from the window, probably calling the police. Time to go.

And if he never had to think about the fact that he was actually feeling regret— that their neighbors had meant something to him, and he didn’t like having to disillusion them— so much the better.

He made it out of the neighborhood before the police showed up, called Coulson, and left a message telling him what had happened. Coulson wouldn't be happy to have to clean the scene, but he'd do it. Then he tried to reach Natasha on the earpiece, taps only, no talking in case hers had been captured. No answer.

 _The annex._ His scoping of all of Pendrist's property might come in handy-- there was a building farther out, closer to the farmland, that had once been offices but was now mostly storage. It was the only place he could think of that fit the description. He'd been so bored lately he'd even been scoping the places that Pendrist's contacts _rented_. Nothing else sounded like an 'annex' suitable for taking a kidnapping victim.

He glanced in the rearview mirror--

And saw a police car hanging back. No sirens, no lights, but she was looking in Clint's direction. Clint turned off at the next side street. The policewoman followed. Could just be something wrong with the car, but he couldn't run the risk...

He got ahead of her by cutting it close through two successive traffic lights, then made a hard right, another, and another until he was sitting in a tiny, windowless alley that fronted onto the street. He grabbed his bow and nocked one of the new toys R&D had given him. If this didn't work, he only had one more shot... He flattened himself on his belly and waited.

The police car entered his field of vision-- he released the arrow. It struck the rear tire and disintegrated on impact, just as R&D had promised. The car slowed suddenly, but the officer wasn't going fast enough to lose control. Clint hurried back to the car, and made it out of the alley before she could think to check the surrounding area. Then he found a parallel street and kept going.

He made it to the edge of town without being caught, and ditched the car a mile from where he was actually going. He stuffed all the gear in the reusable bags from the back seat, hoping to look more like a city shopper and less like an assassin carrying multiple deadly weapons. Buildings were less densely clustered out here. The closest possibility for surveillance was an office building with retail on the first floor.

He circled the building and found a small, shabby store, less likely to have comprehensive security coverage. It sold baby stuff, and had a sticker on the window proclaiming it the winner of the 2006 “City’s Most Earth-Friendly Shops” contest in the children’s category. All the goods were pastel, covered in flowers and bunnies and stuff. He was right: the camera, only covered the door. He wandered casually past its range, face turned away, then pretended to be fascinated by a display of hand-carved wooden blocks painted with lead-free paint. _I bet I could kill someone with these_.

Another customer came in. When the proprietor went to help her look at milk bottles, Clint slipped through the narrow aisles to the back of the store and ducked into the employees-only section. The stores didn’t go all the way through the building, so—

Yes. At the back of the store, another door led to a dim interior hallway with a stairwell. He picked the lock on the door to the stairwell and headed up. By the time he reached the top, nineteen floors up, his leg ached and he was panting. He picked the lock on the door that led to the roof and hid behind an air handler. Then he took out his binoculars.

It was a low-traffic building, with just a few support staff located there. Their offices were on the bottom couple of floors, and nothing seemed out of place there. But the a black SUV with tinted windows in the parking lot stood out among normal commuter vehicles. The rooms on the higher floors were full of boxes, and showed no sign of having been used for a long time-- he could see dust building up in the corners. But there-- on the top floor, something was different. What?

He stared hard until he realized that the light was different. Somewhere on that floor, someone had the lights on. He'd have to leave cover to find out where. He wriggled across the roof to the edge, where he had a slightly better angle on the inside of the building. He still couldn't see directly to the inside, but there was a door standing ajar, and in the glass of the window, he could see a reflection of a reflection of an inside room. There were people inside. It was hard to make out even for him, but he was pretty sure that was Natasha taped to a chair.

Maybe she _wanted_ to be taped to the chair, but he couldn't find out from here. Either someone was using the building to indulge their kinks, or _someone_ was in trouble in there.

He needed to get across to that building, and he needed some cover while he did it. He called up a grappling arrow and laid that on the roof next to him. Then he nocked his second disappearing shaft, and waited. _There_. He breathed, and released. It sped across the parking lot and fell into a pile of leaves on the edge. The shaft crumpled and dissolved. _I’m gonna have to thank R &D for these babies. _He nocked the grappling arrow, held it, and tapped on the riser of his bow. The arrowhead in the parking lot went off, and thick white smoke poured out. Anyone looking at the building from that direction would have a hard time seeing him, and the nearest building in the other direction was quite a ways.

He shot the grappling arrow. It arced beautifully through the air, then fell and fixed firmly in place on the roof. He fastened the other end to something sturdy, slung everything on his back, and started to climb.

He made it across to the other roof, tapped on his riser, and caught the grappling arrow as it released, flying across from the tension of the rope. No sign of his passage now. The smoke would still be enough to make Nat's captors suspicious, but maybe he could use that to his advantage.

He broke in through the roof hatch. If his distance sense hadn't been fooled by the multiple reflections, Nat was at the other end of the floor. By wriggling through the deserted offices, he found a place where he could see the confrontation while being difficult to see himself. That was definitely Nat, surrounded by four men. He couldn’t make out the voices, but he could read the lips of the ones looking his way. Two of them looked like muscle and a third was doing most of the talking. They were demanding to know who Nancy worked for.

He didn’t need to be close to recognize that sharp _crack_. He hated this. He felt like an ass for hating it, because he wasn’t the one getting hit, but he would’ve rather been. That time handcuffed in the dungeon with Coulson, he’d goaded them into hitting him instead of—

 _This is a stupid thing to be remembering now_. The guy in charge drew a gun with a silencer; Nat flinched. No, Nancy flinched, Natasha was calculating her options.

The guy leveled it at her forehead. Clint put an arrow on the string. Would the man pull the trigger? He was too far away to tell, he didn’t know the guy, hadn’t turned his head inside-out like Nat had—

But Nat was, barely perceptibly, getting ready to tip the chair.

He stood up and let the arrow fly, through the glass and into the shoulder of one of the muscle. The boss reflexively jerked his hand away. When his gun was away from Nat's head, Clint put an arrow through his wrist. The second-in-command swiveled and returned fire with terrible aim. Clint didn’t even have to duck. Nat had gotten free of half of her bonds, and took the fourth guy down and out of Clint’s line of sight.

He wasn’t sure who she needed alive, so he shot the second-in-command through his gun hand, too. Then he headed for the room at a run— he could barely see the others and didn’t have a clear shot. He burst through the door as Nat took a knife off the first guard and killed him with it. She ducked a kick from the guy in charge, and returned a more accurate kick that landed on the shaft still protruding from his arm. He screamed and staggered back. Clint grabbed the second-in-command, forced him towards the ground, and kicked him when he tried to get a foot into Clint’s crotch.

Nat grabbed the roll of tape they'd used on her and started wrapping ankles of the two survivors. The second guard's neck was broken. Neither of the two guys in charge were Pendrist.

She taped the boss's arms to his ankles. He whimpered as the position put pressure on the arrow in his arm. “You don’t want to do that,” Clint advised, looking down at the second-in-command, who was about to pull the arrow out. “It’s gonna bleed like hell. You’ll probably die.” He pulled the arrow out of the other dead guard, wiping it on his pants. As he’d said, it bled like hell.

The man spat at him, but his aim with saliva wasn’t any better than with a gun. “I thought you said the husband was a stupid dupe,” he snarled to the guy in charge. “You sure knew shit.”

“Shut the fuck up,” the boss retorted.

Nat taped their mouths. He watched the way she was moving to make sure she wasn't badly hurt. She wiped the roll of tape on her pants, then jerked her head towards the door. They locked it and wedged a chair under it. It wouldn’t hold those guys for long if they got free. “You need 'em alive?”

“We need to salvage everything we can from this. If Pendrist's records aren't where I think they are, I need them to tell me where. I'll kill them later. Thanks for the save.”

“Yeah.”

“But why are you _here?_ ”

He followed her at a run down the corridor. “They tried to snatch me from the house. Said something about the “other one” was at the “annex.””

They took the stairs two floors down. “I got something out of them when they were interrogating me. This building is Pendrist's front. And there's--”

“A vault on this floor.” Clint remembered the floor plans.

“Yeah. Can you blow the door open for me?”

“Do bears shit in the woods?” He forced open the door to the office holding the vault door. “Get back.”

She ducked down outside the doorway. He put the gear bag down for a second and nocked an explosive arrowhead. This was gonna be a hell of a blast, but if the floor was empty, blowing out the walls should be fine. He made the shot and ducked down next to Nat. It was never good to blow up things in enclosed spaces containing yourself if you could possibly help—

He triggered the blast. The explosion blew out of the door harder than he expected, throwing him across the hall into the far wall. Time seemed to slow down and go silent—

No, he just couldn’t hear.

He staggered up, balance off. The force of the explosion had gone their way because the door was still shut. It was weakened, and there was a bowed spot he could see to exploit, but he had to be careful or risk destroying the contents. He motioned for Nat to get farther back, shot his last explosive, ducked again, and triggered it.

Luck was with them. This time worked. He and Nat pried opened the mangled, bent steel plates. She looked inside, then reached in and grabbed a hard drive. She said something, but she was facing the wrong angle to read her lips.

“What now? Take care of those guys?”

She turned to face him, frowning. “We need to see what this is.” She grabbed the bag and ran for the hallway; he was right on her heels. His hearing was starting to come back, or maybe it was sensation— he felt-heard their footsteps, but they seemed to multiply and get stronger and muddied in his head. Ahead, Nat turned her head, and her lips moved, but he couldn’t see what she said. “What?” But he didn’t think she’d heard.

She turned again— then her eyes widened, and she said something that looked like “DOWN!”

He dropped into a crouch as her bullet went over his head. He turned to bring his gun to bear on whatever was behind him. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and arms, hauling him up, forcing his wrist up at a painful angle and making him drop the gun. He felt the cold metal of a barrel against his temple. _I never even heard them coming._

He shoved that down. He couldn’t panic. He couldn’t see the people behind him, didn’t even know how many there were or where they were— his eyes were _useless_ — no, he couldn’t panic. His eyes weren’t useless; he watched Nat intently, and read her lips. She was aiming straight over his shoulder, but she’d have to run into a hail of gunfire, fast enough to keep either herself or him from getting shot.

“We already uploaded the drive,” was what it looked like she said. So his captors were threatening to kill him, probably, if Nat didn’t give back the hard drive. Whatever they said wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Her eyes narrowed, barely perceptible to him and probably not at all to the people who had him.

He could try to break free— but he was off-balance, mentally and physically, and he didn’t know the situation. The chances that he _and_ Nat could both get away unscathed were too low. But that left him helpless—

 _I’ve been helpless and useless this whole damn time_. This was just the crap cherry on a shit sundae.

Nat backed up, slowly, and set the hard drive on the floor, compensating so her aim didn't waver. _No!_ he mouthed at her, but she gave no indication that she’d seen him. It was within her reach, but barely.

His captors must have said something— she raised her eyebrow and made an unimpressed face. It looked like she said, “Come and get it.”

A hard blow to the back of his head— he blacked out.

*

It took a second to realize he was awake.

He still couldn’t hear. Usually sound was the first sensation to come back, but this time, he noticed the numbness in his hands. He started to panic. He forced himself to keep taking slow, shallow breaths; the musty air told him they were still in the same building. Usually he listened to figure out if it was safe to open his eyes. But he couldn’t hear a _damn thing_. Not even the blood rushing in his ears.

A hard slap across his face answered that question— either they'd noticed he was awake or they were trying to wake him. He gave it another three seconds, then slowly opened his eyes, pretending to be more disoriented than he was. That was hard. He was pretty disoriented.

He could see straight ahead out of the room and to an exterior window, and judging by the height, they were still one of the top floors. His ankles were duct-taped to the chair, but his shoes had kept him from losing circulation in his feet like he had in his hands. He could see two guys in front of him— one was the head goon who’d been beating Nat. He had a bloodstained bandage around his wrist. _Aw, hell_. Getting caught by people he'd shot was never good. There was a third guy in his peripheral vision, and more behind him, he was sure. He didn’t see his bow.

Without warning, someone punched him hard in the ribs. He groaned, or thought he did. He couldn’t hear himself, but he could feel the vibration in his vocal chords. He looked around and saw a fourth guy to his left, a tall, slender man in a nice grey suit— Pendrist. He was mouthing something, but his head was turned towards the guy formerly in charge— the head of Pendrist’s goon squad?-- and Clint couldn’t tell who he was talking to or what he was saying. Clint wiggled his fingers to get some blood flowing back in them.

This time the angry guy, the head goon, came right up to him and hit him in the face. Clint rocked back in the chair, trying to absorb the blow while not falling over, and eased his tongue over his stinging lips. The blow would have been even more powerful if the guy had been able to use his dominant hand, which gave him a small sense of smug satisfaction.

He paid attention to what the guy was yelling. “— think we can’t hurt you? Do you have oatmeal in your brains, you stupid shit?”

They must have been asking him questions, which he hadn’t even heard. If they hadn’t figured that out he couldn’t hear, he sure wouldn't clue them in. He was already vulnerable enough. So he said, “You got the fucking drive, didn’t you?”

It was a calculated probe— he didn’t actually _know_ if they had the drive, but it was safer than asking the guy if he’d been talking to himself. He let his eyelids droop and his head sag to the side a bit, to convince them that he was still out of it.

The head goon, having got him to respond and gotten his attention, continued to face him to yell, which was good, because Clint could see what he was saying. “You think that changes things, you ignorant turd? You think now we’ll let you go?”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” It was stupid. But keeping the guy angry enough to stare at him was good, right?

No, not really. He rocked in his chair again from the force of the blow.

The guy glanced at Pendrist, the goonmander-in-chief, and seemed to get himself under control, which was good for Clint. Or maybe Pendrist had said something.“Who are you working for?”

Clint couldn’t think of a snappy response. “Not telling you.” Where was Natasha? Had she gotten out? Or had they killed her? Or captured her, and taken her somewhere else? Hell, for all he knew, she was unconscious behind him. He’d been tied up and beaten before, but he’d never been deaf before-- He’d thought it was temporary, back in the office, but it wasn’t wearing off, and how much timed had passed? How much time needed to pass—

 _Keep it together, Barton_. He couldn’t hear, and he could barely feel his hands, but he could _see_ , and that was damn important. He’d rather be deaf than blind. Oh, God, he couldn’t even think about being blind.

“We have all the time with you we could ask for,” the guy was saying. One good thing about not being able to hear: being spared what was probably annoyingly smug tone. “If you’re waiting for rescue, don’t bother. The elevators are locked down and there are guards in the stairs. Unless your partner has another bow like that--” he nodded in Clint's direction “--you’re screwed.”

The guy was an amateur. He’d given Clint three important pieces of information there: the location of his bow, the fact that Natasha was alive and free, and the placement of the guards. Now all he had to do was figure out a way out. All.

He licked his lips. “Maybe we’re not alone.” He needed to stall, but not reveal _why_ he was stalling.

Mr. Goon sneered. “If you had backup, it would be here by now. So start talking. Or we can see how much _you_ like having an arrow through your wrist.”

Clint suppressed his instinctual fear-horror-revulsion. _I need my hands!_ But letting them see his reaction wouldn’t do him any good. He tried wiggling his fingers some more. Circulation was coming back, painfully, and his wrists were starting to sweat with the panic he couldn't escape. If he could get enough freedom of movement to jerk his wrists sharply, he could tear the tape a bit. But to get that kind of leverage he needed his hands in front of him, and for that he needed his feet free.

Aw, shit, The Almighty Goon had said something while facing Pendrist, and Clint hadn’t caught it. He didn’t know if he was supposed to answer or not. The guy turned back, glaring at Clint. Apparently he was. “Whoever you pissed off bad enough for ‘em to send me after you,” he said, “torturing me isn’t gonna get ‘em to like you any better.”

“What a nice side benefit,” the guy retorted. He turned and said something to one of his goons. The tail end was “quiver.”

 _Shit_. “Not sure how stupid you think I am. You’re not gonna let me go even if I give you a name. So why should I give you what you want?” He shrugged. “You can torture me, but if you put that arrow through my wrist I can make sure you put it through a vein. Nice and quick.” Kind of. Comparatively speaking. “My partner got away, she sent a copy to our employer before we left your office, there’s really not much you can do.”

The guy looked like he was going to buy it for a minute. Then he said, “Let’s see if that’s true.” He turned his head and spoke to one of his goon underlings— whatever he said ended in “hands.” That was a bad sign. _Fuck. FUCK._

The undergoon circled around behind Clint, which made him nervous— he was about to say, “Wait,” because if they were really going to stab him, he _wasn’t going to know it was coming_ — there was a fiery pain in his wrists as the duct tape was ripped off. Goon the Lesser grabbed his hands and forced them around to the front, holding them out for the Goon of Goons, who had one of Clint’s arrows in his undamaged hand. He raised his hand— Clint opened his mouth— the window blew in. Blood and flesh sprayed from the man’s formerly undamaged arm, all across Clint’s front. The man staggered back, mouth open in anguish. The exquisite justice of a bullet to his other arm, instead of his head, told Clint who’d taken the shot.

Pendrist dove for cover as Goon the Lesser tried to source the shot. For the first time, Clint wasn’t the most disoriented one in the room. Another shot shattered a different part of the window. As the others ducked, he freed his ankles, then rolled forward and grabbed his quiver. He winced as his skin crunched over broken glass. His bow-- behind the chair. There were more guys behind the chair, and they'd regrouped enough that guns were coming out. It wouldn’t be long before they realized the sniper was on his side, and tried to hold him hostage— _again_. He vaulted onto the chair, dove over the back, grabbed his bow, got an arrow on the string, and shot the closest goon through the heart. Then he shot the second-closest goon. The head goon was curled up on the floor unmoving— possibly dying, Natasha’s shot had taken out most of his arm, including the major blood vessels. Pendrist was down, probably for good, and there were other bodies, Nat’s kills. But the last goon was showing initiative. He’d grabbed the drive and was running through the door. He took a hard left at his first chance, putting him out of range of an easy shot; he wasn’t stupid, apparently. Clint sprinted after him.

Feeling the impact of his feet on the floor, but not hearing it, was weird. He glanced in the reflection from an office door to make sure there wasn’t an ambush waiting for him, then skidded around the same corner, just as the goon he was chasing turned right. That hallway would take him to the stairs— and boss-goon had said there were guards there. Clint drew the arrow as he ran; he dove into the hallway, loosing the arrow right before he hit ground. The arrow _thud_ ded into the end of the panic bar, disabling its ability to depress; he risked a quick look over his shoulder for potential fire from that direction, grabbed another arrow, and shot the last goon squarely in the chest.

He retrieved his arrows and went back. Searching every body took precious time, and by the time he found the drive and zipped it into his vest, he had seconds before the guards from the stairs showed up. But he knew where Natasha was.

He found an office with a window looking in the direction the shots had come from, and locked the door behind him. He improvised another grappling arrow with some rope tied around the shaft of a regular arrow. Then he shielded his face and kicked out the glass. He couldn't hear it shatter.

Below was clear. Someone would have called the police, but he was willing to bet Pendrist's guys would try to keep them out until they knew what had happened. But if the surviving goons could hand _them_ over to the police--

He tied the end of the rope to the heaviest piece of furniture, and shot the arrow deep into the heaviest piece of equipment on the roof across the way. He hoped it had stuck far enough. Otherwise, his options would be falling to the ground several stories down, or catching the end of the rope and slamming into the side of the building. He grabbed hold of his bow and slid down the rope.

He ran feet-first into the cooling equipment. The impact jolted his entire body, and he fell butt-first onto the roof, landing hard on the gravel. A vibration behind him-- he whirled, grabbing his gun, but it was only Natasha.

She frowned. “You didn't hear me coming?” She was facing him directly, so he understood.

“Blast took out my hearing.”

From her expression, she understood more than he'd wanted her to. “That's how they got the drop on you.”

“Yeah.” He slashed the rope attached to the arrow and reclaimed his bow. The rifle was already broken down in the bag. “We got an exit?”

“Do we have the drive?”

He patted his vest.

“Then straight down's our best shot.” She frowned, looking past him. “We still don't know if it's the right one. There may be more in there--”

“Natasha, we're blown, and I'm compromised. We're maybe three minutes from having to sneak through a whole barricade of cops. We gotta go.”

She hesitated. Then she nodded once. “You first.”

He had to trust that she was listening behind him, and that she would get his attention if someone was coming. The police had to be here by now, but he couldn't hear sirens. He could, barely, hear their feet on the stairs. That made him go shaky with relief. This wasn't permanent.

They reached the bottom. Nat caught his eye. “Police are outside,” she said, or mouthed. “You have a car?”

“Yeah.” He gave her the directions. “How'd they get you here?”

“Tied me up and threw me in the back of the SUV.” She looked him up and down. “Stay here. I'll create a distraction to cover our exit.”

He hated staying behind with no idea of what was happening, but he was too covered in blood and flesh to blend at all. She was less conspicuous. She vanished through one of the doors, and he waited for what seemed like long moments. He forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly, and tried to make out the sound in his ears.

The door opened and she waved him forward. Whatever she'd done, the high-end boutique was empty. They ducked low by the door and watched the parking lot outside-- police cars were streaming in from the road, but so far, they were heading straight for the other side of the building. This was the only chance they would get.

He went first again, watching for any sign of trouble. Somehow they made it to the slight dip on the other side of the parking lot without being intercepted. They turned right and headed up the road, trying to stay out of sight in the tall grass. The car hadn't been touched. Clint climbed behind the wheel, and they took off down the road.

He would be better if they got into a chase, but it was unnerving, driving deaf. He had to rely on the lights on the dashboard, and Nat's lack of panic, to know everything was all right. She handed him a wet wipe from the med kit. He got the worst of the blood spatter off his face and arms. She passed him a baseball cap and a sweatshirt from the back seat, and he disguised the mess in his hair and on his shirt.

The logical place to go was S.H.I.E.L.D. Chicago, but if they headed back through town, there was a chance they'd be seen. He'd make a broad loop around to the south--

_Shit._

“SUV behind us. Look familiar?”

She nodded on the edge of his vision. In the rearview mirror, he could barely make out two figures in the front seat, and they both looked like more of Pendrist's goons. They were getting closer. “Shit!”

He pulled into the turn lane and zoomed past the traffic, swerving at the last second to stay on the road they wanted. With the help of blatantly illegal traffic maneuvers, he stayed ahead of the SUV for nearly a mile. They were coming up on the interstate. He stomped on the pedal, passed three cars on the shoulder of the on-ramp, and was doing ninety before he merged. The good thing about interstates in car chases was you could go faster. The bad thing was, there were fewer places to go.

He veered around a line of semis. “Too bad this isn’t Smokey and the Bandit.” He heard a dull _hum_ , maybe the road noise. One advantage to being mostly deaf— he couldn't hear Nat's inevitable snarky retort.

In his peripheral vision, he saw her twist to look back. They needed to handle the situation inconspicuously-- damn it, he should have let her drive. “Need you to get my bow.” He didn’t hear her response— of course— but after a minute, the bow and quiver appeared. He shook his head. “Need you to shoot it.”

He turned his head far enough to catch her flat look. “You want me to shoot an unfamiliar weapon in a car chase surrounded by civilians.”

“Either you have to shoot or you have to steer,” he snapped, looking back at the road for a second to make sure he wasn’t about to hit something.

“You were a circus acrobat, I was a gymnast, I think we can manage a swap!”

She had a point. He steered with one hand and unbuckled with the other. He switched feet and put his left foot lightly on the accelerator, then slid into the middle of the car. It veered wildly as his movement turned the wheel, but he leaned over and got it back under control. Nat slid across his lap, grabbed the wheel, and replaced his foot on the accelerator. She turned her head. “See? Easy?”

“Yeah, easy.” He turned to find their pursuit.

There: the SUV was staying with them. This car didn't have enough horsepower to really pull away. S.H.I.E.L.D. consistently refused to consider his recommendations for suitable vehicles for car chases, damn it. He rolled the window down, wrangled arrow, bow, and his upper body out the window, and managed to nock the arrow while hanging backwards out of a car at ninety miles an hour. He needed to shoot so that the arrow blew through the tire, and didn’t stick. Else it would be too obvious.

If Nat swerved, or if someone got too close to them, he’d be paste in an instant. At least it would be quick. Speaking of quick, someone was going to notice him if he didn’t— he corrected his aim, took a breath, let it out, and fired.

It flew true and hit the tire, then kept going, landing out of sight in the shoulder. There was an art to managing a blowout at high speeds, but those guys didn’t know it. They swerved and spun out of control across three lanes. Miraculously, traffic right behind them was light— they’d been passing everyone right and left. They slid onto the shoulder, then onto the grass, and came to a stop. Clint pulled himself back into the car. “They’re stopped.”

Someone had probably called highway patrol by now, but there weren’t many vehicles that could have gotten an accurate look at what had happened. Gunshots would have been much more noticeable. The inside of the car sounded quieter than the outside had been. His hearing was definitely coming back.

Nat turned her head far enough so he could read her lips. “… pull off and change the plates.”

He nodded. The next exit dumped them into a quiet suburb; they backed into a spot at the rear of a gas station. Nat popped the trunk; he opened the hidden compartment, which contained three changes of license plate, registration, and insurance, along with fake identities and a bunch of cash. He screwed off the Missouri plate and replaced it with one for Illinois.

Nat came up next to him, and made sure he saw her coming. He turned to look at her. “What happened?”

Her expression tightened. “I still don't know. They just grabbed me. I don't _know_ how I tipped them off. I--” She shook her head. Then she gave him an evaluative look. “I am not entirely sure that I did.”

“You think I--” No, she didn't look like she thought it was his fault. Something cold ran down his spine. _No. We just played this game. We have the dead agents to prove it._ “You think someone leaked your mission to them.”

“I don’t know what to think. I—“ she hesitated, then shook her head. “My instincts are all wrong.”

He snorted. _We should start a club_. “Then we go to ground until we know what's going on.”

They got back in the car and headed away from the highway, then stopped at the cheapest, shabbiest motel they could find. He stayed in the car while she rented a room. The day— the _month_ — was starting to catch up with them both, but they weren’t sloppy: they checked the room first. Except for the bed and the state of the drapes, it was at least fairly clean.

It was a relief to be able to use his eyes to tell him all he needed to know about a situation. Silly, but a relief.

His body was aching, and his head was all over the place. _I never have to be Craig Saunders again._

Ever.

The relief that was almost physical, or maybe that was just lightheadedness. But the deep, fundamental, sickening sense that something was _wrong_ — he couldn’t hear much, he didn’t know when he’d be able to hear again, or _if_ — ate at him, paralyzing him with fear. He stood with his knees against the bed, kind of leaning forward, and just… stopped.

*

She turned around to see Clint sagging forward, looking older and tireder than she’d ever seen him before.

“Barton.” She came up on his left side and waved her fingers in front of his face. He saw, but didn’t respond. She sighed, and got him turned around and sitting on the bed. After a minute, he put his quiver and bow. The back of his neck was brown with dried blood, and bits of glass glittered in the midst of it.

They needed to figure out their next move. They also needed food, and sleep, not necessarily in that order. She got the MREs from the car. Clint had stripped out of Craig’s sweatshirt and shirt, and was gingerly attempting to clean up his neck and back.

She sat down behind him, where he could see her in the mirror. “Let me do that.”

She expected a fight— he’d been prickly and independent the whole mission, sensitive about his limitations. But he handed the washcloth over without a word. That made her life easier, but it was a little worrying.

She picked out all the glass she could see, and then gently sponged the blood away. Clint watched her without flinching in the mirror, which was large enough to be weird. “One bed and a giant mirror, it’s like something out of a terrible porno,” she muttered.

Clint pulled away sharply. “No, it’s not.”

She bit back a retort she would regret. He went into the bathroom and shut the door. She stared at the door for a moment, venting her feelings by thinking all the things she wanted to say, and wasn’t. Then she grabbed one of the MREs.

After a few minutes, Clint came back out, hands and face damp. She moved off the bed and sat with her back to the wall, out of respect for his comfort or out of pettiness, she wasn’t sure. He looked at her like he knew exactly what she was doing, and wasn’t sure how he felt about it, either. She concentrated on her food, and not on the fact that she wanted to snap back. Clint was usually good about staying off her sore spots. In fact, he was remarkably tactful for a smartmouthed smartass. But he’d hit that one hard, and the intimacy of the mission— the _ambiguous_ intimacy, that she could not fully assign to Nancy— was coloring her reaction.

She thought of all the times he’d been so careful not to alarm her, or to trespass, during their first missions together, working around the edges of a history he could only have guessed at. She pushed her anger back. She waited until she’d gotten food in her, so she didn’t speak wholly under the influence of exhaustion and hunger.

“Did you honestly think I was making a pass at you?” It came out more resignation than angry snarl.

Clint looked up in time to catch the last bit. “What?”

Maybe she should wait to have this conversation when he could hear. But it was fresh now, and it mattered to her. Being able to do things that were important enough to matter to her was still novel. “Did you honestly think I was making a pass at you,” she repeated slowly.

He looked— deeply unhappy. _Oh, God, Clint_ — “No.” He didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about.

She slumped back against the wall, tired, unhappy, and in pain. The muscle at the bank had worked her over thoroughly. They hadn’t been very good, but the impression they'd left was becoming stronger as the adrenaline wore off. “Half the people I meet want to fuck me, and a significant portion of those have convinced themselves I want to fuck them back. I would like to have _one person_ around who understands that’s a front.”

He looked tired, and resigned. She felt bad for making his day even worse. “I know you don’t want that. I know you know I don’t want that.”

“Okay.” She waited.

He rubbed his fingertips over his face, then opened an MRE of his own. “The mission screwed with my head. I’ve never seen you disappear into someone that completely. Not from up close.” He shook his head. “Sometimes when you were being Natasha, some of Nancy would creep in, and I couldn’t tell if you were staying in practice or you hadn’t even noticed. And Nancy had some of Natasha. There were times when I looked at you and I had no idea who you were at that moment, and it scared the shit out of me.”

“Why?”

“Because I like Natasha!” His voice was loud-- his hearing loss? “I didn’t know who I was talking to, I didn’t know if the things we were doing were— real, I couldn’t see where you ended and Nancy began— how much of _you_ is real?”

That stung her to the core. “ _All_ of me is real,” she snarled. “I fought damn hard to make it so.” _And you watched._

The energy drained out of his expression, leaving him looking deflated and defeated. “I know,” he said. “I know.” He stared at his hands. “I’m sorry.”

They’d both been beaten too thoroughly by other people that day to be doing it to each other. She leaned more heavily against the wall, aware of every ache and pain. After a minute or two he looked up again. She tossed him the candy from her MRE. He caught it without looking directly at it, and the shadow at the corner of his mouth deepened. The silence became a little more comforting, and a little less tense.

She put the rest of her MRE aside. Clint slid to the floor and stretched his legs out towards the wall. He rubbed his chest, wincing, and reached for the little medkit they’d brought from the car. He took out the painkillers, shook out two, and passed them to her. It wasn’t worth the energy to go to the tap; she dry-swallowed them.

They needed to make a plan, but she was exhausted, and not just physically. She was not sad to see the back of Nancy Saunders.

“When I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Clint began.

She looked up.

“I had a girlfriend.”

This was a new story to her. She sat still and assumed her Good Listener demeanor. She tried not to pry, not with him, because he mattered to her. But if he started volunteering information, all bets were off.

“Believe it or not, S.H.I.E.L.D. was more normal than anything else had been for a long time— foster care, the circus, the mercs. Well. You can probably believe it.” His mouth twisted.

“Anyway, I started to think I could, I could have normal things. And I met this agent— weren’t many people that would talk to me, at first, but she would. We had— a lot of fun together. She was— she was brilliant, and she was kind. To _me_.” One side of his mouth tilted up.

Nat waited.

“But, uh.” He paused. “We… I.”

“We wanted different things.” His voice was flat when he continued. “She wanted things I, I couldn't…” He swallowed. His left hand closed, then opened. “We couldn’t work it out. We weren’t compatible. It didn’t… end well.” He stared down at his hands.

Nat kept silent, because he clearly wasn’t done.

“You know, I thought she was invulnerable? She had a family, they were alive, her parents _liked_ each other. She even had a cute kid sister. She went to high school, hell, she had a college degree. Whatever her fault lines were, I couldn’t see them. But she said _I_ fucked with her head. Me. That because I didn’t want…” He swallowed. “That it made her feel like something was wrong with her.” His voice dropped on the last line.

He stared at the carpet, sounding tired. “She got shot in the head two weeks later on a routine mission gone wrong, sold out by a branch director. She spent six months in the hospital, left S.H.I.E.L.D., moved to Georgia, and went back to school as a molecular biologist. We never talked.”

It was the single longest thing she’d ever heard Clint say about himself when not under the influence of strong medication.

He looked up, and smiled mirthlessly. “Wouldn’t be telling you this if I could hear myself doing it. Can’t hear what you have to say back, this way.”

“Clint—“

But he’d looked down again, which was kind of the point. “I dated a man a few months later, another agent, and that didn’t go much better except he didn’t get shot.”

“Clint.” She had to wait until he looked up. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t get her shot.”

He nodded. “But I got her hurt.”

 _It went both ways, apparently_. She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to make him stop hurting— that was a frightening feeling, and also very much outside her skill set, especially when the pain wasn't even physical. _What have I become? What has he_ made _me?_ “Sorry I freaked you out.”

“It’s not you. Just— all this—“

She nodded. She got it.

“And what about you?” he asked after a few minutes.

She gave him a sharp look. He looked back calmly, not pretending innocence. That wasn’t a question she would have let him get away with on another day, let alone answer.

But this wasn’t another day.

“Maybe the Red Room made me this way.” She paused. “Or maybe, even if they hadn’t…” She let that one go. “But I’m not going to second-guess myself.” Having a _self_ that belonged to her and was under her control was not something she would ever take for granted. She would not ignore herself out of a desire to conform. “I want what I want.” _And don’t what I don’t_.

Clint nodded. “Good.”

He could have meant _Good_ as in _Convenient for me_ , but she didn’t think he did.

He looked at her steadily, with the fearless, unflinching gaze she knew well. “Was it just me,” he said, “or was there Clint and Natasha mixed in with Craig and Nancy, back there in Naperville?”

She took a breath. She knew exactly what he was talking about. She hesitated on the edge of a precipice.

_What are you for? Are you for following the Red Room’s rules? Or are you for yourself?_

She swallowed, and jumped.

“It’s not just you.”

“Good to… know.”

There was a long, awkward silence. She cleared her throat. “Do you trust Coulson?”

“With my life.”

“Do you trust him with mine?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then let’s bring him in.” They’d trusted Coulson last time, and he’d trusted them, and they’d all nearly lost their lives because of it, but not from a betrayal.

“He knows about the house. But not anything since then.” Clint felt in the bag of gear he’d hauled all the way from the bank, and tossed a phone to her. “Here. It’s clean.” He rattled off Coulson’s number.

“You carry an unused burner with you at all times now?”

He looked back steadily, and she remembered watching him shake, watching him throw up, watching him limp, all from Broad’s betrayal.

“Right.” She called Coulson.

He was disgruntled when he answered; news of a disturbance at the bank building had filtered out, and he didn’t like having to hear about it from the media. “Why haven’t either of you been on comms?”

She stayed where Clint could read her lips. “Mine got stolen when I was captured. I’m assuming the same happened to Clint’s.”

A pause. “What happened?”

She gave him a brief summary, ending with, “We got a hard drive and left Pendrist dead. We don't know what's on the drive.”

“Clean-up?” Coulson sounded even more unhappy at hearing that they'd failed their mission objective.

“There may be some guards still loose who know what happened.”

“And there’s an arrow by the side of the highway,” Clint added.

She relayed that, then paused. “I think they knew I was coming.”

There was a very _long_ pause. “Where are you?” Coulson asked finally.

She gave him their location.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t move. What's your status?”

She hesitated, probably too long. “Battered.”

Coulson made an unhappy noise, reiterated his order for them not to move, and hung up.

She tossed the phone back to Clint. He caught it one-handed. “I couldn’t see the seam, when you became Nancy.”

In the past, it hadn’t mattered much if she’d made the separation between herself and her cover identity during her off hours. In some of her pre-S.H.I.E.L.D. missions, she’d lost herself in a cover, waking only at the end to find herself covered in someone else’s blood. She didn’t know if that was an ability the Red Room had programmed into her, or she’d just been such a blank slate she hadn’t been able to see herself. “It’s hard work, keeping the seam in sight.”

“You ever find bits and pieces of them hanging around later?”

“Yeah. Why? Do you feel like you can’t shake off Craig Saunders?”

“He’s a hell of a lot more normal than I’ll ever be.”

“You need a switch.”

“A what?”

“A switch. For your cover, next time. Something your person hates, but you like. Then, after you get out, you treat yourself. It helps cement who you are.”

“Do you do that?”

“Sometimes. Not until I joined S.H.I.E.L.D., really. To… to use a switch, you have to know who you are.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“‘m glad it was you,” he said after a few minutes. “Here.”

She felt her lips twitch. “Don’t get all mushy on me, princess.”

His eyes widened. “Did you just make a—“ With a carefulness not entirely due, she thought, to his injuries, he moved to her side of the floor and put his hand on her forehead. “You’re not feverish,” he muttered. His fingers gently brushed the back of her neck. “—and there’s no pod.” He sat back where he could see her face, and groaned. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

She nodded. “Practically decrepit.”

He gave her a filthy look. “The bathroom looks relatively clean, I’m’nna…”

She nodded again. He levered himself off the floor. When the tap started running, he came back out. “Do you want to... go somewhere, later?”

“… Are you asking me on a—“ _Please don’t be--_

He recoiled. “ _No._ I was thinking somewhere where nobody’s shooting at us. For more than eight hours at a time.”

“Like a _vacation_?”

“I think that’s what it’s called, yeah.”

“I’ll… keep the idea in mind.”

Clint stayed crouched against the wall as if he couldn’t move, which would be a problem when the tub got full. “I think my hearing’s coming back, I hear a dull roar.”

“The water.”

Clint turned his head away. “Say something.”

“Something.”

It took a minute, but she thought he got it. He turned back to her. “You shouldn’t be hanging around a smartass like me, Nat, I’m a bad influence on you.”

“You thinking _you’re_ a bad influence on _me_ is adorable.”

He pouted. “I’m not adorable.”

“Whatever.” It was good to see Craig Saunders melt away, revealing the Clint beneath.

“I’ll be in the tub.”

*

Phil was in Minneapolis when he got Romanoff's call. He couldn't remember them _ever_ failing a mission before, and she wasn't the one who usually called in. The flatness in her voice when she reported their status made him drive fast, torn between curiosity, displeasure, and unease.

He reached the seedy motel where they were holed up and checked out the area, looking for any signs of a trap. He _thought_ it would be a cold day in hell before either Clint or Natasha sold him out, but sentiment was no excuse for carelessness. He thought he recognized the S.H.I.E.L.D. car, now with Illinois plates, but nothing else was out of place. He found the right door, and knocked.

A long pause. The door clicked and swung open. When he stepped inside, Natasha was already settling back down to the floor.

He closed the door— and tried not to stare. Natasha was leaning against the doorway of the bathroom, and Clint was submerged in the tub. That was— he hadn’t realized they— _It’s not polite to stare at your naked agents, even when they surprise you._

He looked away, but not before seeing the bruises and cuts all across Clint’s body. Natasha wasn’t looking at Clint, but Clint clearly didn’t care about Natasha seeing him. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t care about Phil seeing him. “Status?”

Natasha stood, took Phil’s head between her palms, and turned him to face Clint— exactly the direction Phil had turned away from. Clint was watching him intently. “He can’t hear.”

Phil started to turn to look at her, instinctively, to follow that with a question. _What?_ He understood her tone, now, when she'd reported on her status. Any remaining irritation at the botched mission took a back seat. He squatted next to Clint, then gave up and sat on the dirty floor, resigning himself to another trip to the cleaners, because this would probably be a long conversation. “Start at the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my betas/editors, C and N, and also to K for feedback on this chapter.
> 
> The song at the beginning is “Our House,” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young.
> 
> I occasionally post outtakes from this story [here](http://sallyexactly.dreamwidth.org/).


	6. Clothes Make The (Hu)man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike Team Delta is better than you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter contains on-screen graphic violence and torture; references to brainwashing and abuse, including of children.

He had to hand it to her, this really was the back of nowhere. Possibly even more remote than his cabin, which was impressive, considering he was still on a paved road. But as the crow flew, he was far from civilization.

He slowed, studied the map, and the road branching off to his left. This probably went in the direction he wanted. He sure hadn’t been about to plug the coordinates into Google Maps; he’d _seen_ the things S.H.I.E.L.D. could do with a simple Internet search. He wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t naive, and he wasn’t protecting his own secret.

The pavement turned to gravel after about a hundred feet, but it kept going in the direction he wanted. The gravel became a dirt track, dead grass packed down where very occasional tires had passed. It was a good thing it hadn’t snowed; he would have had a hard time staying on the not-road.

He drove four or five miles that way, going slow, until he saw faint lights ahead. He hesitated, but kept going, because if he was right, sneaking up would be a really stupid thing to do.

He was right about the lights: they were coming from a house, small and low, nestled in the woods. The track had stopped completely, and he was just bouncing through the trees, now. He parked about a quarter mile from the building, turned off the truck, and… sat. 

It couldn’t have been an accident, Nat letting him see the coordinates— she would never be that sloppy. But he was still worried about waltzing in there. What if he’d misinterpreted? Jesus, it wasn’t like they’d had a _conversation_. That would’ve been way too normal. Apparently.

Not that he found conversations about their Feelings any less awkward than she did.

Too late to worry about it now: if it was her, she would have heard the engine, and would come to investigate if he didn’t turn up. If it _wasn’t_ her, better find out now. If he’d stumbled into something nasty, he could probably take it. He leaned over, grabbed the duffel and the grocery bag from the other seat, shouldered his quiver, and picked up his bow case. He slammed the car door, and took a minute to study the house. Not new— not built to spec— but he could see the wisdom of this particular house. He would have preferred somewhere a little more physically inaccessible, not just remote, but that was them: he relied on brute force to do his job, Nat relied on smoke and shadows and misdirection.

He really hoped it was the right place because, damn it, he needed a vacation. He needed a vacation from being out in the field, or on the range, or even in a _corridor_ , and not being able to shake the feeling that someone was coming up behind him and he couldn't hear them. He'd gotten most of his hearing back, to the point where he couldn't really tell how much he was missing, or if he was missing anything. That should have comforted him, but it didn't. At least when he'd _known_ he couldn't hear, he'd known to compensate. But he couldn't spend the rest of his life jumping at auditory shadows.

He crunched through the needles towards the door, tugging at the collar of his jacket. Winter in the Rockies was bitter. He hadn’t bothered to put his gloves on for the short walk, but his fingers were already aching from the cold.

He reached the front door, hesitated again, and then knocked.

Footsteps inside, light and quick. The locks scraped— multiple ones, heavy— and the door opened. 

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” 

“I, uh, brought some steaks. And beer. And donuts. For food.” He held out the bag. “Didn’t want to be a bad guest.”

Nat’s lips twitched, and she stepped back, letting him inside. He crossed the threshold and stepped off to the side, not going any further as she shut the door and locked it. It wasn’t that he thought he wasn’t welcome— if she hadn’t want him to show up, she wouldn’t have pulled the drapes and then put a lamp in the window. But this was her place.

He did look around. It was bigger than his cabin, lighter, less rustic. But it was small enough that the relative lack of furnishings didn’t make it look spare, and it was defensible.

Another difference between them: he kept his bows on the wall. He was quite sure Nat had as many weapons hidden in this place as he did in his cabin, but they were out of sight. Instead there were a surprising number of books, and a sofa, and an armchair. The left third of the house was taken up with a kitchen, larger than he expected, and with a wooden table that seemed out of place in conjunction with Natasha; on the right were two doors, one closed, one leading to a bathroom. “Nice place.”

“Thanks. Any trouble finding it?”

He turned to her: she was smirking. “No.”

“I wasn’t sure when—“ she paused for a bare second— “to expect you.”

He left the duffel bag by the door, pulled off his boots so not to track dirt across the floor, and followed her into the kitchen. “Yeah, well, I wrote my ETA backwards in Cyrillic in invisible ink on a tiny scrap of paper and tied it to the leg of a bird trained to home in on this location, but you must not have gotten it.”

“Probably got eaten by a hawk,” she agreed.

He put the groceries on the table and stood by the wall, feeling a little awkward. He didn’t really do social calls. He’d been over to Coulson’s place, sometimes, if they were in a city where he had one, but he’d never gone there just to _see_ Coulson. “I never figured you for a mountains person.”

“I’m experimenting.” She reached up and took two mugs from a cabinet that was half-empty like the rest of the house. “I bought this place after Frankfurt. Brought some things over from my… safe house.” She poured coffee for him and tea for herself. “It is what it is. I’m pretty sure no one’s going to shoot at us here. But I can’t make any promises.”

He held the mug beneath his nose, and inhaled the sweet perfume. “Thanks.” He wasn’t just talking about the coffee.

She smiled. “Welcome.”

They sat for a few minutes. He continued to look around. The house was well-sealed and snug, warm despite the chill outside, but there was only one light on in the kitchen. “Solar?”

She nodded. “And geothermal. The last owner inherited it from her father, who built the place. Apparently he was something of a hippie. The toilet's waterless. There’s a compost pile and a clothesline out back.”

His eyebrows went up. “Do you use it?”

“Why not?”

They drank in companionable silence. It wasn’t often that he felt completely comfortable in a strange place. The four walls seemed to shut out the outside world entirely. Until his leave was up— or Nat kicked him or, or _her_ leave ran out— he had no one to kill, no one to hide from, no one else to be. “So. You get wrestling up here?”

The corners of her mouth curved up. “Only if I throw out meat scraps and the raccoons fight over them.”

Despite his comfort, he was starting to question the wisdom of coming out here. Not because of Natasha, but— well, sort of because of Natasha. What were they going to _do_? With nothing to shoot, blow up, or otherwise destroy, were they just going to get bored with each other?

“You want more coffee?”

“Please.”

She refilled both mugs, and they sat some more. It wasn’t often that he got to be so still. It wasn’t often that he saw _her_ being so still. She didn’t look uneasy at all. The silence should have been uncomfortable, like he’d worried, but it wasn’t.

“Food?” she asked after a few minutes.

“Yeah, that’d be good. You want help?”

“No.” She carried her mug to the sink, emptied the contents of the grocery bag, and put the beer in the small refrigerator. 

“Mind if I wander around, then? I promise not to fall down any wells.”

She looked at him blankly. “Go ahead.”

He pulled his shoes back on, fastened his jacket, and put on his gloves as she started to make noise in the kitchen. He grabbed his bow and quiver, just in case, locked the doorknob behind him, and let her deal with the deadbolts. It was a sturdy door, well-made; he was willing to bet it hadn’t come with the house. Civilians tended to obsess over locks and forget about the importance of equally strong hinges and doors.

The stars were coming out in the winter twilight, as he circled around the house and kept going, past the compost pile and the clothesline. He had a flashlight in his pocket, but he just took it easy and went slow, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness after the soft light of the house. God, it was gorgeous up here. The view wasn’t all that great— he was willing to bet there was a better one just over the next ridge— but it was so _deserted_. He wasn’t even sure what state they were in. Besides his breath and his footsteps, the only other sound was the wind, moaning softly through the valley. The air was cold and crisp, and smelled like smoke— just barely, faint enough that it could plausibly have drifted over from another valley, and he wasn’t alarmed by its presence— and pine trees. He felt all the tension leave him as he tramped through the woods, just him and his weapon and what felt like a thousand miles of empty night—

_What was that?_

*

She’d bought a cookbook. She wasn’t using it now, because she knew how to cook chunks of dead cow. She wasn’t sure she would use it at all. But she liked having the option. Maybe she would like cooking.

She didn’t know how long Clint was going to be gone, but he knew food was coming. She opened the refrigerator door and stared blankly at the contents, trying to decide whether anything besides steak was necessary. Would steak be sufficiently filling? She hadn’t done anything particularly strenuous that day, and if Clint was still hungry, he could open the refrigerator himself. Steak it was. As an afterthought, she peeled and separated two of the oranges that she’d brought from town, paying close attention as the white pith peeled off the juicy flesh. She found it oddly soothing, concentrating on this simple task.

When Clint didn’t turn up, she turned the heat down to draw out the cooking time, and poured herself another cup of tea. The silence seemed to seep into her, filling every crack in her brain, drowning the poisonous voices of the Red Room that she still sometimes heard. She’d discovered that she enjoyed solitude and her own company, now— not just tolerated it, but enjoyed it. She had repaired herself enough to be able to give herself that much grace.

Her mug was empty, and there was no sign of Clint. She went outside and circled the cabin, looking for any movement. Nothing besides the wind through the trees. She tried to pick up his tracks, but it was dark, and she didn’t have his eyesight. She went back inside and called him. He didn’t pick up.

She turned off the stove and threw the steaks in the refrigerator. She strapped on another pistol and more knives; food, water, a blanket, and rope went into a backpack. She pulled on sturdy shoes, buttoned her coat, grabbed gloves, and—

Footsteps outside the house— Clint’s, slow. She checked the window, then undid the locks. The knob turned and he stepped inside— carrying a girl.

“What,” Natasha said.

He swung her off his hip and set her on the floor. She stood on unsteady legs and stared up at them. Natasha remembered to close the door, not taking her eyes off the girl. She was wearing a coat and a hat, but they didn’t look very heavy, and she was missing mittens— and shoes. 

“I found her wandering in the woods.” Clint put his quiver and bow on the sofa, and stripped off his gloves.

Nat looked at the girl, at him, and back to her. “Alone?”

“Yeah. No sign of anyone else in the area.”

“Did you ask her where she came from?”

“She won’t talk to me. Think she’s pissed off with me for catching her.”

“ _Catching_ her?” If this kid was—

Clint caught her look. “Is there _anywhere_ around here she could reasonably have come from?”

She didn’t have to think; she’d chosen the area for its lack of inhabitants. “No.”

“‘sides, it’s too cold for her to stay out there tonight. She doesn’t even have shoes.”

Nat stared blankly at him, then looked down at the girl again. She tried to guess her age: anywhere between five and ten, maybe, it was hard to tell. “What were you doing out there?”

The girl folded her arms across her chest, and stared back.

Nat looked at Clint, at a complete loss for words. Nat couldn’t throw the girl out, even if she wanted to go. Clint was right about the weather, and Nat wasn’t a proponent of throwing small children on the mercy of the world, because she had experienced precisely how little mercy the world had. 

“We could take her into town?” Her training was mysteriously lacking in 'what to do when your partner brings home a small child he found wandering in the woods miles from any other human habitation.' Besides her fellow drones in the Red Room, she’d barely interacted with children, and most of those interactions had been under very unpleasant circumstances.

“No.” Clint looked grim. “Not until we know that whoever we give her to won’t just send her back to whatever she’s runnin’ from.”

She wouldn't argue with that. And while the argument at the front of her mind— _but there’s a small child in my house_ — was persuasive to _her_ , she wasn’t sure Clint would agree. “Well. There’s food.” 

She divided the steaks three ways. She only _had_ three sets of anything— plates, silverware, mugs— total; she wasn’t in the habit of entertaining. She heard Clint in the other room, talking to the girl:

“Look, you don’t have to tell me anything. But we’re going to keep you here overnight until we can find a safe place to take you, all right?”

Silence.

“You can take your coat off if you want.” Apparently Clint was persuasive; the little girl came out to the kitchen with her coat off, revealing a pretty, torn, muddied dress over similarly battered blue jeans.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Clint was asking her. Nat watched her carefully: she looked up at him, and shook her head.

They sat down to dinner. It was one of the oddest meals Natasha had ever had, which was saying something. She watched the child and didn’t pretend otherwise. Clint also watched the child and _did_ pretend otherwise. What was she doing out there? Had someone left her there? Had someone left her there, deliberately, in a way that had to do with Natasha and/or Clint? Nat knew, better than most, exactly what a little girl could accomplish with the proper training. Ten-year-old Natasha wouldn’t have been able to take out two trained agents like Clint and adult Natasha, not without a hell of a lot of luck. Or poison. But Natasha hadn’t turned her back on the food.

The girl _did_ eat, which was probably good, and she didn’t eat like she hadn’t been fed in days, which was definitely good. “So,” Clint mumbled around his food, “you wanna tell us where you’re from yet?”

The girl looked from him, to Natasha, to her plate, and back to him. She shook her head.

“‘kay.”

They finished eating. Clint grabbed the dishes, which was theoretically polite of him, but meant Natasha was left watching the child. She jumped off the chair and darted down the hall; Nat followed, and caught up with her as she wrestled with the lowest, heavy deadbolt.

“Sorry, you can’t go out there.” Nat propelled her by the shoulder towards the couch. Was this even legal? Did this count as child imprisonment? But unless the child really _was_ an agent trained in survival, she’d freeze to death. “How are your feet? Did you cut them, or get frostbite?”

The girl slumped down sulkily on the couch, and shook her head.

“May I check them?”

A nod.

Nat sat on the ground and carefully peeled off the socks, which were as good as ruined with dirt and tears. They were child’s socks, with a pretty pattern. She checked the girl’s feet, handling them as little as she could: dirty, cold still, bloodied a little on the soles, but mostly intact. Blisters on her heels indicated that she’d come a long way in her shoes before she’d lost them, but her soles lacked the calluses of spending lots of time barefoot on practice mats learning martial arts. “We need to get the dirt off before it gets into these scrapes. You don’t want to get a foot infection. Do you-- mind if I do it?” Natasha didn't understand children, but she could extend them the courtesy of not _handling_ them without their permission.

The girl shook her head again.

Natasha got a bowl of warm water and a washcloth. She wasn’t worried that the girl was going to escape while her back was turned: she couldn’t even reach the top two deadbolts. Nat worked carefully and gently, getting the dirt off without rubbing the scrapes and blisters any more than she had to. When she got around to the girl’s heels, she rolled her pant legs up to keep the hems dry, and surreptitiously check for old bruises or scars. None. That was encouraging.

Nat bandaged the worst scrapes and brought the girl a clean pair of Nat’s own socks to put over the bandages. They were too big, but as long as she didn’t make a run for it, she’d be fine.

She emptied the bowl and took it back to the kitchen. Clint had finished the cleanup. “She looks unhurt so far,” Natasha murmured, wringing out the washcloth. “She didn’t flinch, and she wasn’t tense.”

Clint nodded, got one of the beers from the refrigerator, and cracked it open. Nat wished she felt safe enough here with the strange child to indulge in the relaxation of even a little alcohol. She didn’t think the kid was a _threat_ , not really— but she was an unknown factor, which meant Nat needed to be on the top of her game. “Did she talk?”

“No.”

Clint tilted his head back and took a long swig. Then he made a face. “There’s one person we could call.”

“Ghostbusters?” she suggested, face perfectly straight.

Clint choked and nearly spat out his beer. She pounded him helpfully on the back. He swallowed, then coughed. “I’ve created a monster.”

“Yes,” she agreed cheerfully. Then, more seriously: “I can’t think of a better option. Is he--” She hesitated. Coulson had actually taken Christmas off this year, hadn't he? “Is he back?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

In the living room, the girl was trying to get the door open again. Nat pulled her firmly away, sat her down on the couch, and scanned her bookshelves for something appropriate to give a presumably non-traumatized small child. Clint made the call.

“I’m with,” he began, then hesitated: they hadn’t used any names. “— my partner. We have a kid.” A _long_ pause. “Are you there?”

“I don’t know, she won’t say. Looks about eight, maybe,” Clint continued after a minute. “She seems fine, but she won’t tell us what she’s running from.” Pause. “No, there’s nowhere around here she could have come from.” Pause. “Uh-- Out West. A non-coastal, non-border state.” Longpause. “Well, I was hopin’ you could help us find where she belongs, or else give us some advice.” Pause. “Yes, I _know_ it’s late, I’m sorry, this wasn’t on my agenda for today either.” Pause. “Okay.”

Nat handed the girl a copy of Hans Christian Anderson's fairy tales. Clint turned around and took a picture of the girl with his phone. “Sending now, sir.” Pause. “Yes, thanks.” He hung up.

“I bet he was happy.”

“You have no idea.” He settled down in the armchair with his beer. The girl had her nose in the book. 

“How far away did you find her?”

“About a mile, straight east.”

“You think she came over the ridge?”

Clint looked at her, but _didn’t_ say, “A kid like that, no way.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe.” He glanced at the girl. “Would be easier if she’d _tell us_.”

Nat sat and watched them both, watched Clint watching the girl. Her ankles hadn’t seemed bony or lacking in flesh. She looked like a normal girl, even to Natasha, who had also looked like a normal girl but had not actually been one.

What was this girl’s life was like? What a normal childhood was like? School, probably. The Red Room had given its trainees the very basics that they needed to blend in— she’d already known how to read when they’d taken her, but they’d taught her a little math— and drilled them extensively in what they thought was actually useful, like languages and geography. But still, she couldn’t imagine sitting in an actual classroom for, what, eight hours a day, learning… what?

And then what, what besides school? Her imagination blanked out. She’d _seen_ other children, and interacted with them, but she refused to consider those normal circumstances.

The girl got up, breaking Nat’s reverie, put the book down, and went into the bathroom. She was in there a while, but there was no window, and maybe the toilet was confusing her. “There’s sawdust in the bucket!” she called.

After a few minutes, the tap ran— and ran, and ran. Finally the girl came out. Her face was wet, and the front of her dress was soaked.

Nat looked at her, then at Clint. 

“Were you trying to get a drink?” Clint asked.

The girl nodded.

“Lemme get you a mug.”

Nat found one of her shirts, long enough to be a dress on the girl, and brought it out. “Here. This is dry, if you want it. I don’t have any pants that would fit you.”

The girl changed in the bathroom, and left her pants and dress in there. Nat surveyed her critically when she came out: more of her legs were exposed, and her arms and collarbone, but still no bruises.

The girl took the water Clint offered her and went back to her book. Nat and Clint looked at each other blankly. Nat got up and wandered around the house, checking things that didn’t need to be checked. “I’ll be back.” She pulled on her coat, grabbed the backpack she’d left by the door, and went outside.

She headed towards the ravine Clint had mentioned. Everything looked normal when she reached it. That didn’t surprise her; he would have looked, and looked well. But she kept going, because he hadn’t said if he’d been going out or coming back when he’d found the girl. The woods were quiet, and she didn’t see anything out of place. She looked up at the ridge: there might be answers on the other side that would be gone by daylight. But it would take her a couple of hours at least to get up there, and without knowing what to look for once she was there, it would be a fool’s errand.

She went back. When she got inside, the boredom and mild frustration on Clint’s face was all she needed to know that nothing had happened: no word from Coulson, or from the girl. She hung up her coat. “Nothing.”

“How far d'you go?”

“The base of the ridge.”

The girl yawned, and tilted farther over on the couch, book forgotten on the cushion. “You sleepy?” Clint asked.

The girl nodded.

Clint looked up. “Blankets?”

“Yeah.” She opened a cabinet next to the door. She had an extravagant number, really; she liked being warm.

“Some for me, too, if you got ‘em. I’ll take the floor.”

Nat handed the girl two thick blankets and a third to use as a pillow. “You can share the bed if you want.”

“Okay,” Clint said after a minute.

By the time she’d turned the lights off and triple-checked the bolts, Clint had undressed down to underwear and T-shirt and crawled under her covers. “I wasn’t sure which was your usual side…”

“The middle is my usual side.” She turned her back and traded her jeans and blouse for sweats. 

“Ah.” He sounded chastened. “Well, thank you for sharing.”

“You’re welcome.” She looked into the living room. The girl had already curled up under the blankets, only her curly dark hair showing. “If you, uh, need something during the middle of the night, just say something. It’s a small house, we’ll hear you.”

She got a sleepy nod.

Nat got into bed and scooted to the middle so her back was against Clint’s. The house was cool, not cold, but there was a difference between being not-cold, and being pressed up against a human radiator. Natasha was a fair monarch of the bed; a reasonable tax of body heat was all she asked from her subjects.

“The kid from the alley was sent to his grandmother.” Clint sounded sleepy, too.

“ _What_ alley—“

Oh, _that_ alley.

“His mother’s mother. In Germany. ’s mom was dead.”

And Clint had killed his father. She remembered the shock and uneasiness, from Klaipeda, when Clint had told her he’d killed the man in the alley. That had surprised her nearly as much as his being able to figure out her story, because she hadn’t been able to assign any reasonable motive to it. She hadn’t been sure if he’d just liked killing, or had wanted to get rid of witnesses, or what. She understood better, now.

Clint’s breathing got slower and deeper, until she was pretty sure he was asleep. She let herself drift into almost-sleep. She kept awake enough to listen for anything unusual, like the girl trying to sneak out, or someone coming to the house to reclaim her— or the girl sneaking into the bedroom to kill them both. But all she heard from the living room was quiet breathing. 

The night crept by. “Go to sleep,” Clint muttered.

“What?”

“You were awake when I fell asleep and you’re awake now. Go to sleep. I’ll keep an ear out.”

“Mmm.” 

“You... worried about nightmares?”

“No.” She didn't really want to get into what she had and hadn't been dreaming about, so she didn’t argue, just let herself relax against his back, and—

“How long has she been doing that?”

Nat listened to the quiet sniffling. “A while?”

He pulled away. She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes to see his look. She looked back, unrepentant. She wasn’t qualified to comfort kids in the middle of the night. She was better suited to being the monster in the middle of the night. There was nothing reassuring she could truthfully say to this girl. “It’s going to be all right,” well, it usually wasn’t. “We won’t let anyone hurt you—“ they couldn’t promise that, either, unless they were prepared to take her on for the rest of their lives.

Talk about middle of the night nightmares.

Clint got out of bed, got dressed, and padded into the living room. She rolled into the warm spot he’d left behind. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

Sniffle. “No.”

The girl's voice was high and childish, with the local accent. She was from around here. With reluctance, Natasha abandoned Clint’s residual body heat and went to the living room. The girl was sitting up, curled against the side of the couch; Clint was kneeling on the floor to put himself at her eye level.

“You wanna tell us anything?” Clint asked gently.

Nat turned away for a minute. She needed a breath to process the complex emotions that struggled for dominance. She knew what had been done to Clint as a child-- and though it might have been more banal than what had been done to her, she wasn't prepared to call it 'not as bad.' But _him_ , it hadn’t made a monster— maybe it had even made him kinder and gentler, as assassins went, than he would have been otherwise. She had no idea if that was how it worked for normal people. But she knew he’d come through his own hell, less fundamentally messed up than she had, and with the courage to turn around and offer a hand to someone in the same position, even when it left him vulnerable.

She turned back around in time to watch the girl say, “I ran away ‘cause my momma was gonna have another baby, and I ran into some guys in the woods, and they scared me and came after me, and I kept runnin’ and I got lost. And I miss my momma.” She sniffled. “And my poppa.”

“You ran into some guys in the woods?” Clint asked. “Do you know what they were doing?”

Nat put the bathroom tissue box on the cushions beside the little girl.

“I dunno, they had all this white stuff. And they saw me and shouted and one of ‘em pointed a gun at me and I ran.” She wiped her eyes.

“White stuff?” Nat asked. “In bags? Piled?”

The girl nodded.

Nat looked at Clint. Clint looked back at her. “Do you know how far away that was?” Clint asked.

“I ‘unno. I found them after I had my sandwich.”

“How long had you been in the ravine before I found you?”

“Since it got dark.”

From noon to an early winter sunset was time to cover a lot of ground, but less for a little kid who wasn’t going in a straight line. Nat’s eyes narrowed. The people she’d described could be quite close.

“Did they get a good look at you?” Clint asked.

She shook her head. “I was hidin’ in the bushes. I thought maybe they would give me a drink.” She looked up. “C’n I have a drink?”

Nat refilled her mug.

“So… you ran away?” Clint said.

The girl nodded.

“‘Cause your mom’s having a baby?”

“ _Another_ baby,” the girl corrected with a scowl.

“How many does she have already?”

“One. My sister. And me.”

Clint glanced up, looking confused, and then back down. “But is she— good to you? Your mom? And your dad? They feed you and take care of you?”

The girl nodded, still looking sulky.

Clint and Natasha exchanged blank glances. _What the hell more could you want?_ She wouldn’t blame Clint for wanting to shake the girl and tell her how good she had it, but of course he didn’t, because he was Clint.

She didn’t have to understand to ask the one question that really mattered. “Do you want to go home?”

The girl turned her head quickly, as if she’d forgotten Nat was standing behind her. Her eyes filled. “Yes.” Her lip trembled, and she started to cry.

“Hey, hey.” Clint handed her a tissue. “Tell us how to find your folks, and we’ll get you home.”

She nodded, still sniffling.

He met Natasha’s gaze, and jerked his head towards the kitchen.

She followed him in. “Do you believe her?” he murmured.

“About her family?”

Clint nodded.

Natasha thought. “No bruises or scars, well-nourished, doesn’t flinch away from either of us. Did she seem to be in any pain when you carried her here?”

“Not besides her feet.” 

She nodded. “I think I do. You?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. I, uh…” He looked down at his hands, then back up. “Can’t be sure, but I’m willin’ to bet if they were hurting her, she would have tried to take her sister with her.”

Nat watched him.

“‘sides,” he added, his tone lighter, “someone probably had to make that sandwich for her. Doesn’t prove anything, monsters can still feed their kids, but…” He shrugged.

“Then let’s take her home.”

They went back to the living room. Nat threw the girl's dress and pants in the tiny dryer so wouldn’t have to wear Nat’s clothes home. “You wanna tell me your name?” Clint sat down cross-legged on the other end of the couch.

“Aza. Azalea.”

“Pretty name. You know your phone number, Aza?”

She rattled it off. Clint felt for his phone, dialed, and put it on speaker.

“‘lo?” A gruff— but not sleepy— male voice answered after three rings.

“Poppa!”

A silence. “ _Aza?!_ ” Then: “Aza, baby, where are you?” His voice was choked.

“Um…” She looked up at Clint.

“Uh, hi,” Clint said. “My friend and I, we found your girl wandering in the woods, we took her home and gave ‘er some supper. Soon as she’d talk to us, we called you. You tell us where you are, we’ll bring her home.”

“No-- who, who are you? Who is this? I’ll come get her—“

“It’s no trouble,” Nat said firmly. “Just give us an address, or coordinates.”

“Ah… I'd really rather...” He sounded uncomfortable, but gave them an address off of a highway. As the crow flew, it wasn't that far, but the road wound around and around so much it was about ninety minutes, that way.

Clint looked up. Nat nodded. “Okay. Give us about ninety minutes, we’ll be there.”

“Who— who is this?”

Clint and Nat looked at each other.

Aza saved them by grabbing the phone. “Poppa, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ , is Momma there too?”

“Yeah, sweetpea, she’s right here.”

A woman’s voice came on the line, also choked with tears. “Oh, _honey_. You all right?”

“Yeah, Momma, I’m fine.”

Clint turned away with a funny look on his face. Nat turned away, too, and let Aza chatter away to her parents. She turned the coffee maker on in the kitchen, then got dressed, and threw some basic essentials in her backpack. Clint came up behind her. “Want me to take her?” he murmured.

She shook her head. “I’ll ride along.” She studied the shelves, wondering if it was even worth taking anything with her right now, or if that would be foolish sentiment.

“You’re not— are you burning the place?”

“Mm-hmm.” Aza could theoretically find her way back here, and also identify Clint and Natasha from photographs. That was enough to make it unsafe.

“Fuck, Nat, I’m sorry.”

“Me too, but that’s life.” She grabbed a couple things; she’d come back for the rest later, once she found another place. It would be hard to find somewhere as suitable as this again, but it was a big country. 

As the coffee brewed and Aza’s clothes dried, Nat closed the bedroom door and put her weapons in a duffel bag. Those could go in the back of Clint’s truck when Aza wasn’t looking.

Clint was pouring the coffee into her thermoses when she was done. Aza, having hung up with her parents, wandered into the kitchen. “Is that coffee? C’n I have some?”

Clint shrugged. “Sure, it’ll put hair on your chest.” He poured the last cup into a mug for her.

Aza wrinkled her nose. “ _Ew_.” She took a sip, and her eyes bulged. She coughed.

“Hey, easy there.”

“My parents never let me have coffee,” Aza said. “This is good.” She kept firm hold of her mug when Clint reached for it, and took another sip, even though it was clearly too strong for her.

Clint shrugged again. “There’s sugar and creamer if you want it.”

“Ooh, sugar.”

While Aza was occupied with the sugar bag, Nat brushed by Clint and relieved him of his keys. He stiffened, but didn’t make a grab for them. She shouldered her backpack, grabbed the duffel bag, and headed for the truck.

By the time she got her weapons safely stowed out of sight and returned to the house, Aza had wriggled into her dry clothes. Clint had his quiver, covered, and hanging by his hip. “You ready?”

Nat nodded. So did Aza.

Clint frowned. “Where’s _your_ car?”

“I don’t have one here.”

“Then how’d you get here?”

“Hitched, then walked.”

He eyed her as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he believed her. She smiled sweetly. It was true, Nat didn’t have a car there, and if she had other forms of transportation, he didn’t need to know about them. She would come back for the bike later.

“I called the state police while you were out,” he said. “Told ‘em about the guys Aza saw in the woods. They said they’d check it out.”

She nodded. If they hadn’t gotten a good look at Aza, it was unlikely they would come looking for her, but leaving loose ends was foolish.

Clint looked down at Aza’s sock feet, and frowned. “You mind carrying this for me?” He handed over his quiver bag. “You got some more socks?”

“Second drawer.” She put the bag across her body and felt the weight of the quiver at her hip. In the bedroom, she heard the drawer roll. Then silence. “Second drawer from the _top_ ,” she called, followed him inside, and firmly shut the drawer that contained part of her collection of ridiculous silicone.

Clint had a face like he’d found a nest of rattlesnakes. “That never happened?”

“Agreed.”

He brought Aza another pair of socks. Then he picked her up and settled her on _his_ hip, and they started for the truck.

Apparently, once Aza started talking, she didn’t stop. She chattered all the way to the truck, about her sister— annoying— her schoolwork— boring— and her Christmas— great. “We got to go see Grandmom and Grandpop on the reservation,” she said. “Sometimes they come to us, but this year they stayed there ‘cause my auntie and her family were coming to visit. Grandmom gave me a gardening set. When it’s spring she said I can call her and she’ll tell me what to plant, like _she_ grew when she was my age.”

“Uh-huh.” Clint'd been making non-committal noises of agreement for the last five minutes at apparently appropriate places in the chatter. He was a better man than Nat, who’d just started tuning the kid out.

They reached the truck. Clint set Aza in the middle of the bench seat and told her to buckle; Nat handed him back his bag, which he tucked behind the seat. She climbed in the other side. Clint turned up the heat, and they headed for the road.

Clint turned the radio up just loud enough to make it hard for Aza to talk nonstop. Nat found she could tolerate the twang better than usual. She nursed her coffee and watched the road, keeping half an eye out for anyone following them or waiting for them, mostly just enjoying the occasional tree silhouetted against the moonlit sky. It was a spare and bleak beauty, this time of year. She enjoyed it.

Clint had given Aza his thermos to hold and warm her hands. When he discovered she’d drank half of it, his expression reminded Nat of a painting she'd seen on display in Oslo, a person with their hands to their face in shock. Out of the kindness of her heart, Nat passed him her thermos. He looked at her gratefully. “You’re a pearl among partners.”

“Are you guys married?” Aza piped up.

Clint choked, and nearly spat hot coffee on the steering wheel.

“No,” Nat said.

“Oh. So you’re just girlfriend and boyfriend?”

“... We’re... friends who... happen to be girl and boy,” Clint said.

Some merciful higher power was apparently watching over them, because she rattled on: “ _I_ had a boyfriend. Last year. ‘fore Mom and Dad decided to homeschool me.”

“You’re, like, _eight_ ,” Clint said.

“I’m _nine_.”

“Okay, _still_.”

“That’s _plenty_ old enough to have a boyfriend,” she informed him, nose in the air.

He made a face. “I stand corrected.” He looked over her head at Nat, and made another face.

Nat suppressed her smile and turned to look out the window. She was, honestly, glad that the girl hadn’t been traumatized into silence. This was the lesser of two evils. She kept repeating that like a mantra.

Aza fiddled with the heater. Then she fiddled with the radio station, and they got to hear seven kinds of static. Clint reached over and firmly put it back on the twang. Aza sat back for a minute. Then she reached for the glove compartment.

Clint lunged to stop her, and they nearly swerved off the road. Nat’s brain, belatedly, caught up with her, and she reached forward, but not before Aza pressed the little button on the console and the door fell open. “That’s _private.”_ Nat slammed it shut.

“Oh.” Aza sat back. “You have a gun.”

“Uhhhhh… yeah.”

“My poppa carries a gun in his truck. And Momma has one in her car, too. We’re not s’posed to touch them, ever.”

“No you’re not,” Clint agreed. He looked like he was about thirty seconds from bailing out and running for his sanity.

Aza fell mercifully silent for a while, and her eyelids drooped. “Um,” she said a while later. “Um, c’n we pull over?”

“Why?”

“I, um, I gotta--”

“Oh. Oh, sure.” He slowed, and stopped them by a little grove. Nat got out and let Aza scramble out. She headed for the trees without hesitation, and Nat looked away, thankful that she didn’t have to add ‘teach a girl to pee outside’ to the list of the night’s trials.

They got back on the road. It started to snow, lightly, but she knew Clint had driven through much worse. She’d _been_ there. Aza abruptly stopped talking, slumped against Nat’s side, and started to snore softly.

Clint looked over, eyebrows raised, and smirked. Nat made a childish face at him. She couldn’t even _move_ , pinned between the door and her captor. It was a good thing Clint was driving and she was riding— he was left-handed, she was right-handed, so there was no way Aza, sandwiched between them, could accidentally find one of the guns they were carrying. She was squished up against the band of one of Nat’s sheaths, but Nat was pretty sure she wasn’t going to notice. It was, at least, mercifully quiet.

Until she woke up. “How long ’til we’re there?”

“‘bout half an hour.” Clint had driven like Clint always drove, and on the deserted highway, they’d made good time.

“C’n we stop again?”

This time Nat climbed back into the truck to wait where it was warm. It was late enough that Coulson might plausibly be up, if he were on the East Coast. “You should tell Coulson we found her family.”

“When we get there.”

Clint saw the mailbox before Nat did and read the address before she could make it out; he slowed, and pulled onto the dirt lane. There was a house up ahead, and almost every light was on. The front door flew open before they were halfway there, and a tall man hurried out, followed by three large dogs, followed more slowly by a heavily pregnant woman balancing a toddler on her hip. 

Aza wriggled. “That’s my Poppa! And Momma!”

He stopped the truck. Before Nat could unbuckle, Aza had crawled over her lap, kicking her in the ribs in the process, opened the door, and tumbled to the ground. She ran to her parents, who picked her up and held her in what looked like a very uncomfortable group hug. Their conversation drifted over: mostly “Thank God you’re safe,” over and over.

Nat reached over and pulled her door closed again. At the noise, the tall man looked up, and stepped away from his wife and children. “Mmm,” Clint said, and got out of the truck to meet him. The man pumped his hand, then pulled him in for an enthusiastic hug. Nat watched with one eyebrow raised, and her lips twitched. After a minute, she climbed out and leaned against the door, arms crossed.

The woman followed her husband over to Clint. Aza wriggled out of her mother’s arms and latched onto her father’s leg. The woman straightened up— holding that much child couldn’t have been easy— and looked past the men. She came over to Natasha. “Thank you for rescuing my girl.”

“You’re welcome.” Nat gave her her best sincere smile.

The woman held out her hand. “I’m Lily, and that’s my husband, Johnny.”

“Hi.” Nat shook her hand.

Lily tilted her head. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“No,” Nat agreed. “You didn’t.” She didn’t know why she didn’t just lie— but if these people ever went to look up their daughter’s rescuer, she didn’t want them to discover that they’d lied to her.

After all, she wouldn’t want them to think they were Bad People.

Lily’s eyes widened, and then her expression turned thoughtful, scrutinizing, and a little wary.

“Your daughter’s safe.” This time her tone was sincere. “She told us she ran into some men in the woods. They sounded like drug runners. We called it in.”

Lily studied her. “And that’s the sort of thing you’d know where to call in?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Well, can I… write a letter to your supervisor, or something? I— I’m really grateful.”

Nat smiled, a real smile, at the thought of that. “No. But I’ll tell him you asked.” Behind Lily’s back, Clint was surreptitiously inching his way back toward the truck, taking a tiny step back each time he shifted his weight and nodded. “Our job isn’t… ” She paused. “It was… pleasant, to be part of a story that has a happy ending with no caveats.”

 _God, Romanoff, you’re getting soppy_.

“We really should be going,” she heard Clint say.

“Are you sure you won’t stay the rest of the night? For breakfast? Dinner?” Johnny asked.

“Thanks, but we, uh, we gotta go…” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “Back.”

Johnny nodded slowly, looking not particularly behind his wife in comprehending their general line of work. “Well. Safe travels. And if you’re ever in the area, and there’s _anything_ we can do…”

“We’ll know where to come,” Clint agreed. He waved a hand in farewell, then climbed back in the truck before they could come up with any other suggestion to detain them.

The adults held the dogs back as Clint started the truck, and waved furiously in the rearview mirror until they pulled onto the highway and turned out of sight.

“Back to the house?” Clint asked after a couple miles.

“Yeah.”

“If you want, you can stick some stuff in the back of my truck, and put it in storage, or whatever.”

“Okay.”

As soon as it was late enough, he called Coulson and put the phone on speaker. “Sir, we found the girl’s parents and took her back home.”

“Good. Is Agent Romanoff there as well?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I need the two of you to come in.”

They exchanged looks. “I’m on leave,” they said simultaneously.

“I _know_ you’re on leave.” Coulson sounded exasperated. “But I need you to come in. We need you in Georgia.”

“What’s in Georgia?” Clint asked.

“Meth makers have holed up in old wine caves in the state’s wine country.”

They exchanged looks. “That’s not S.H.I.E.L.D.’s purview,” she said.

“It is when the meth makers have German accents and equipment that no one can account for as part of the cooking process.”

Nat’s eyes widened. _Shit_. “H.Y.D.R.A.—“

“Looks like it.”

“In the States.” Clint needed a minute to process.

“Apparently.” Coulson sounded grim.

Natasha remembered the conversation they’d had in the motel outside of Chicago, where Coulson had asked them if they trusted him to quietly investigate the possibility that a mole was still active. Her yes had not been automatic, and she didn’t think Clint’s had been, either.

“Can you make it to Fort Leonard Wood by noon?”

“Hell, no,” Clint said.

“What about four?”

“We could make it by noon _tomorrow_.”

Coulson made an exasperated noise. “Then I’ll send a helicopter to Fort Collins. Can you be _there_ by noon?”

“Yes.” Natasha fought back the urge to remind him that when on leave, they were free, and they could easily have been in Inner Mongolia instead.

“Good. I’ll see you there.”

They hung up. Nat scooched down in her seat and leaned back, and let the road noise lull her to sleep.

*

They stopped back at her house. Clint helped her load some of her possessions in the back of his truck, and then they put a couple of layers of blankets and tarps over the whole thing. “I need to find someplace safe to park it anyway,” he said, off of her doubtful look.

“Good thing you didn’t have your muscle car.”

“It is _never_ a good thing I don’t have my muscle car.” 

She allowed herself to look at the house a little wistfully while she locked up. It had been a nice retreat-- while it lasted. Then she turned away and climbed in the truck.

“Sorry about your place.”

“It’s fine.”

They’d grabbed the donuts and the beer, too, and breakfasted on them as they drove through the early morning. They got into Fort Collins with time to spare; Clint went to talk to the S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison about a safe place to leave his truck, and Nat… wandered around. She was still on leave, technically. She didn’t have to do anything reasonable. Military guards tried to stop her twice, but each time her S.H.I.E.L.D. ID got her through.

Coulson was waiting for them at Fort Leonard Wood. He looked irritated, or maybe just agitated. Either way, it wasn’t an expression she was used to seeing on him. He activated the screen. “This is Haralson County,” he said without preamble. “It was settled by Hungarian expatriates who tried to start a wine industry, but they didn’t have a lot of success. They left behind wine caves, though, some in deserted parts of the county. We received a tip that some have been expanded and reinforced, and turned into a lab for H.Y.D.R.A.”

“How credible is this tip?” she asked.

Coulson grimaced. “It’s from a source who has always been accurate and trustworthy in the past.”

“But…” Clint prompted.

“But I wasn’t the first to see it. Or the second.”

“Ah.”

She leaned forward. “Do we have _any_ idea what H.Y.D.R.A’s doing here? Or how they got here? I thought they were strictly a European group.”

“So did we all. But they’ve been doing a lot of unusual things lately— none of them good news for us.” _Munich_ and _Zurich_ floated in the air unspoken.

“So what’s our job?”

“Find them and confirm the tip. If it’s real, then we’ll send a larger strike team.”

“Any idea what kind of numbers we’re talking?” Clint asked. “Or what they’re working on?”

“Perhaps five to ten scientists and support staff, and some soldiers.”

“Why _Georgia_?” she asked.

“Some locals have reported seeing strangers digging in the fields late at night. We think they’re taking samples for a new bioweapon that’s dependent on the particular microbial community at that site.”

“Do we have any idea why H.Y.D.R.A.’s putting all these resources into… horrible scientific things all of a sudden?” Clint asked. “That’s usually more A.I.M.’s line.”

“A change in leadership, we think. When A.I.M. split from H.Y.D.R.A., they came to specialize in engineering and physical science-related monstrosities. There’s something of an unoccupied niche for bioengineering.”

“Just our luck.”

“Is there anything you need?” Coulson asked.

They looked at each other. “Just the intel, and we’ll figure it out from there,” Clint said.

*

They inserted in Atlanta and drove west. Clint drove. He normally drove— and if the distraction was helping him cope with the idea of seeing H.Y.D.R.A. again, she wouldn't take that from him. He looked tense, as they drove through rolling hills of red clay and pine trees, but not debilitatingly so.

Their intel put the possible H.Y.D.R.A. base almost at the Alabama border, south of Buchanan and west of Bremen. It wasn’t a bad place for a secret, evil lair— the sign at the edge of the county proudly proclaimed that it had over 25,000 residents. If you don’t want people to see you, hide where there aren’t people.

“They must be getting supplies in from somewhere,” she murmured as they cruised through Bremen’s few streets. “They’d stick out like a sore thumb around here.” Unfortunately, that applied to her and Clint as well. If they were smart, H.Y.D.R.A. was paying off a local or two to report if anyone strange came to town.

“So either they’re close to a road,” he said, “or they get small shipments, small enough to be carried through the woods, on a regular basis. Which would attract attention, and leave a trail.”

“The first one. Their stuff is probably delicate. They wouldn’t want to hand-carry it through the woods.”

He nodded, and stopped on a deserted side street to pull up the map on his phone. “I’m thinking the east side. They come up 27 from 20 and they’re there.”

“Here.” She leaned over his shoulder and tapped a tiny road on the map. “Not quite a dead end, but there’s nothing back there until it rejoins the road. They could reasonably suspect any traffic that got out that far.”

He pulled up the intel docket, selected the reports of strange men sampling from the woods and fields, and overlaid the locations on the map. They clustered in a loose circle around the area she’d indicated. “I watch one end, you watch the other?”

It wasn’t a perfect plan— there was no guarantee that H.Y.D.R.A. would get a resupply any time soon. And they probably had footpaths through the woods. But it had the advantage of letting them get a feel for the terrain— and now, with the trees leafless even this far south, it would be hard for H.Y.D.R.A. to hide.

They took the car up 27. She dropped him off a few hundred yards from one end of the road they’d spotted. He’d sneak down past the houses and find somewhere high to watch from, and she’d hide the car in Buchanan, then double back to watch the other end. _Good thing it’s Georgia_. It was relatively warm here, for watching outside all day in the middle of winter.

It took her about an hour to get to a good position. She tapped her earpiece, and after a second, another tap came over the line.

“So,” he said after a few minutes. “Odds that this is a trap?”

“Oh, excellent.” She paused, and shifted position on the roof of the deserted shed she was occupying. “If they were sensible, they’d wait to spring it until we come back with reinforcements.”

“Or if they know it’s us,” he said, “they’ll spring it now.”

She hated the crawling feeling on her spine, the idea that they hadn’t caught the mole after Munich and someone was still gunning for them. For _her_. 

“The houses go farther back than it looked on the map,” he said. “There’s no way they’d be bringing a big truck down here on a regular basis. It’s gotta be a pickup.”

After a few minutes, he continued: “Say fifteen people down there. Two MREs a day each, since they’re not doin’ anything strenuous. Thirty MREs a day. Say they could get a pallet in in the back of a decent pickup. They’d need to resupply every three weeks, but that’s only food. What do you think they go through in the way of science stuff?”

“Depends on what they’re doing.” She recalled details of every science lab she’d infiltrated, robbed, or blown up. “If they’re trying to grow bacteria from the fields, they need something to grow it in— some sort of liquid. They’d go through a lot of that, and a lot of those plastic plates as well. And some of their supplies have to be refrigerated.”

“Hmm.” He sounded distracted. “I bet if we tested these creeks, we could find them by the concentrations of, uh, bad stuff.”

She raised her eyebrows, even though he couldn’t see her— or at least, wasn’t looking in her direction. “Bad stuff? Do they make a kit for that?”

“I think,” he said, not dignifying that with a response, “that they’re getting their water and discharging their waste to the creeks. The reservoir wouldn’t make sense. Stuff might build up and someone might notice.”

“Makes sense.”

“So that’s the water… they’d need an air exchange, too, and power from somewhere. Not solar, the panels’d be too obvious.” He trailed off, thinking.

When he didn’t say anything more, she said, “Do you know what happened to Broad?”

“He Disappeared.”

“He disappeared?”

“No, he _Disappeared_. With help.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure what exactly S.H.I.E.L.D. would do to him that they found more useful than killing him, but she felt no pangs on his behalf.

“Still can’t get over the way he attacked us— _you_ — like that. Must’ve been desperate.”

“Yeah.” That was one thing she did regret, that she’d never found out what had driven Broad to such a reckless, doomed attack. Although if Carter hadn’t shown up with her dismembered Doombot, things could have been a lot closer.

She hadn’t seen Carter since then, and didn’t know what she thought about the whole thing. Nat was a little surprised— she’d half-expected Carter to turn up to gloat about how Natasha owed her her life and she could easily have let her die. Which wasn’t actually very believable. Answering the question “You were standing right there, Agent, why didn’t you _stop him,_ ” coming from Nick Fury wouldn’t be pleasant.

“D’you feel a breeze?” Clint asked suddenly.

“Yeah. Against my back. Why?”

“Hmm. ’s what I thought.”

“What?”

“It’s blowin’ that way over here, too, but I’m watching a bunch of leaves that are swirling around and around like they’re caught in an updraft.”

“Where?”

“Look south, can you see a tall, dead pine tree?”

“I see a lot of dead pine trees.”

“This one’s the only one for a little bit.”

“‘… Yeah, I think so.”

“Now look left— your left— and past it a bit. Do you see it?”

She squinted through the binoculars. “I barely see the tree. I can’t make out the leaves.”

“So you can’t see the leaves for the trees, is that what you’re saying?”

She rolled her eyes. Clint chuckled.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said.

“Well, it’s there, trust me.”

“You think it’s some sort of exhaust system?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. If the facility is any size at all, passive ventilation won’t cut it.” He was quiet for a few minutes. “Which means, around here somewhere, there should be intake, too.”

“And a door.”

“Want to be sure first. Don’t wanna be digging up someone’s bomb shelter or something.”

“ _Bomb shelter_?”

“Yeah, you know, the Cold—“

“I _know_ what a bomb shelter _is_. Why would anyone still be operating one?”

“‘Ours is not to wonder why.'”

They were quiet for a few minutes. She scanned the area with her binoculars, concentrating on things she could see from her angle and he couldn’t.

“Huh.”

She waited for him to explain, but apparently he wanted an audience. “What?”

“I’m tryin’ to triangulate between the road, the creeks, and the exhaust. It’s bigger than I thought it would be.”

“ _What_ is?” 

“The thing that’s under there, if it’s under there.”

She gave up pressing for an explanation and let him work his magic.

“If I were designin’ a system like this, I wouldn’t put the intake on the ground, because it would get clogged with all sorts of things and you’d have to go clear it out all the time.”

“Makes sense.”

“I’m thinking that same dead pine. It would be convenient.”

“Mm-hmm.” She trained her binoculars on that area, focused on the road, and then worked her way west, looking for anything that could possibly be a door.

“Maybe a well. Those creeks are pretty small, if they drained much water, people’d notice.”

A pallet of MREs was _heavy_. You wouldn’t want to carry it down the stairs if you could possibly avoid it— you’d have trouble even making enough room for enough people to actually lift the thing. So that hinted against a door flat on the ground. Which meant that the only other logical possibility near the road was built into the side of that slight rise— a door backed by a hallway that sloped down to the level of the rest of the facility, probably.

“Do you see anything funny on your side of that little hill? Like a dead patch?”

“It’s all dead, Widow, it’s winter.”

“Deader, then.”

“What, like zombie plants? ‘ _We hunger for chlorophyyyyyyyyyyll.’_ Nope, doesn’t have the right ring to it.”

“ _Hawkeye_.”

“Uh…” He was quiet for a minute. “This is scary, I might have been right about the zombies.” “What the hell are you talking about?”

“There’s a patch that’s not _as_ dead as the rest.”

“Maybe it’s sheltered.”

“Nope, exposed on the side of the hill.”

“You think that’s our door?”

“Unless you see anywhere else for it to be.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Good, it’s not naptime.”

“Awwww.”

Her knees started to go numb, pressed against the shingles. “Do you have anything that could seal off that outflow from a distance?”

He was quiet for a minute. “I could blow up part of the hill and bring it down on top of it. Depending on how sheltered it is, I could get an explosive arrow _inside_ the outflow. Or I have a sleepy gas arrow, if I could be sure the intake was in the pine tree. None of that’d be subtle, though.”

“Hmm.”

The day dragged on. The sun crept across the sky. Her fingers started to go numb. She took turns holding the binocular with each hand, and tucked the fingers of the other hand in her armpit.

“You think Fury has any Captain America underwear?”

She choked. “Fury’s underwear is low on the list of things I want to think about.”

“Do _you_ have any Captain America underwear?”

Her eyebrows went up, even though he probably wasn’t looking in her direction. “If you’re so fixated, I’ll get you some for Christmas.”

“We just had Christmas.”

“And I didn’t get you anything. See? Perfect.”

“You don’t know what size to get.”

“I spent six weeks pretending to be your wife. I saw your laundry.”

“I don’t _want_ Captain America underpants.”

“Then stop making such a fuss about it.”

He subsided into a silence that managed to sound mutinous.

“We could pretend to be police and canvas the houses down there, ask if they’ve seen any suspicious traffic,” he suggested a while later.

“It would be more trouble than it’s worth to find the uniforms.”

“True.”

“We’re going to have to get close eventually.”

“I know. I just wanna make sure it _is_ H.Y.D.R.A. I got some arrows with their name on it, and I don’t wanna waste them on some other scumbags.” He sounded grim.

Had the poison darts been specific to Munich, or were they an innovation that had spread throughout H.Y.D.R.A?

“I spy with my little eye,” Clint said a while later.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s a game. You’ve never played?”

She rolled her eyes. “Unaccountably, it was low on the list of the Red Room’s priorities.”

“One person says “I spy with my little eye, something,” and then they say a color. And the other person has to find the thing.”

“We’re surveilling, not playing games.”

“It’ll help us pick up details about the scene. And sharpen _your_ observation skills.” He sounded like he was smirking.

She wasn’t going to let that one go. “Fine. What do you spy?”

“I spy with my little eye, something purple.”

 _Purple_? She stared, unsuccessfully, trying to locate something purple.

“It better be in front of me. I’m not taking my eyes off the scene.”

“I’m not _that_ unprofessional.”

She refrained from muttering under her breath, and kept looking. Finally she said, “The hand grips on that tricycle in the yard.”

“Yep.”

“I spy, with my little eye, something… brown.”

“Hey, what a coincidence, so do I.”

“You’re cheating.”

“I’m gonna use my incredible powers of observation and say it’s a leaf.”

She smirked. “ _Which_ leaf?”

“That one.”

“Which one?”

“That one, right there.”

“You realize I can’t see you.”

“Just assume I’m pointing to the right one, then.”

“You’re a hopeless excuse for a spy.”

He didn’t retort. “If I were a terrorist organization on hostile soil, and I built a place like this, I wouldn’t have just one door,” he said after a while.

“No.”

“And I wouldn’t put the back door in view of the front. There’s gotta be a tunnel that goes quite a ways.”

“Yes.” Unfortunately, anything out of their field of view was, by definition, in too wide of a radius to search thoroughly.

“Hey.” He sounded alert now, not lazy.

“What?”

“That patch of plants that’s not quite dead? It shows up on the infrared. It’s warm.”

 _Warm_. She pulled on her own goggles to confirm that he was right: yes, it glowed a bit more white than the surrounding hillside.

“This is hypothetically a bio facility of some sort,” she said slowly. “Right?”

“Yeah.”

“If they had a door cut in the side of the hill and covered in foliage, the foliage would die, and it would stick out in spring and summer.”

“Right…”

“Unless they grew their own, I don’t know, hydroponically, and kept it alive that way.”

“Equipment on the other side of the door,” he agreed. “These guys seem to have thought of everything.”

“Not well enough to keep from being obvious.”

“This isn't proof--” He paused. “I spy with my little eye, a heavy pickup truck with a covered bed coming up the road, with a very blond driver who keeps drifting towards the left side of the road.”

That was a stroke of luck. She turned until she could see it, too, and agreed: the driver looked German. It continued down the road past the last house, followed the curve, and then pulled off the road once it was out of sight of the houses. The driver stopped not far from the weird patch of hillside, and climbed out. After a minute, the hillside seemed to _fold_ in on itself, and the man walked down into the ground. The plants popped back into place behind him.

“I didn’t see him on his phone. Must be cameras,” Clint said.

“Or some sort of GPS locator that they’re monitoring inside.” But they’d be stupid not to have cameras somewhere. 

Something wasn’t right— “Hey. He didn’t take anything in with him.”

“I know.” Clint sounded grim. “If they just needed him there, he would have come in something less conspicuous.”

There weren’t many things that could be coming out of that facility, and none of them were good.

“I’m calling it in to Coulson and to Atlanta,” he added. The line went momentarily dead.

He was back by the time the hillside swung open again. The driver returned, walking backwards, serving as a guide for two more men in dark clothes, who were wheeling something covered on a small cart. She strained, trying to see under the cover—

“The breeze moved the cloth, it’s got a biohazard symbol on the side.” His voice was dark.

And if it were just trash, they probably wouldn’t be so careful with it. Without knowing what it was, they couldn’t let H.Y.D.R.A. get it out of there.

“You stay here, I’ll steal a car and follow them,” she suggested.

“Wait, they’re talking.”

She couldn’t see their lips moving from her angle, but Clint spoke German.

“Shit. They’re talking about a second shipment going somewhere else. And something-- about an aquifer.”

She felt her mouth go dry. She’d done dangerous things with poor odds many times, but that didn’t make this a good idea. “What if you cover me and I steal the truck? They’d scramble all their people to chase me.”

“They’d probably move the timetable up for the other shipment. If you get away with the truck, they’ll know the game is up.” He paused. “I don’t want to risk whatever this is on the chance that there’s only two batches, or that I can steal the second truck.”

“Keep it as a backup plan?” she suggested.

“Yeah.”

“Destroy the truck and bottleneck the entrance.”

“There’s nothin’ to stop them from stealing a car and getting out while the rest of them keep us busy. And who knows what’d get out if I blew up the wrong thing.”

“Well.” She stretched, moving inactive limbs back to readiness, and did a quick check of all her weapons. “Cover me, and I’ll get inside.”

“You got it.”

“If this doesn’t work—“ If, as would be completely understandable, the two of them failed to wipe out an entrenched base of heavily armed terrorists and prevent them from dispersing whatever they’d created into the aquifers— Even if she made it through the base alive, but didn’t get to the other exit before some of the rats made it off the sinking ship— or if there were more than two groups, or more than two exits— “Coulson needs to know.”

“I’ll call it in. Move on my mark.”

“Got it.” She wriggled backwards down from the roof and crouched by the wall, planning the best route to the underground facility in terms of maximizing speed and concealment. _If they have those darts, this is going to be a_ very _short run._ If she— or Clint— or _both_ — got hit, would anyone from Atlanta be able to get here in time? Did they even have the antidote there?

Clint came back: “Mark.”

She moved, staying low, slipping across the street and into the woods. 

“Fuck, the door’s closing!”

She started to run, sacrificing concealment for speed, and heard a faint _swish-tang-thud_ ahead— an arrow hitting something metal.

“Got the truck,” Clint grunted. “Acid in the engine block, ‘ll slow ‘em down.” Another _swish-thud_ , followed by a faint scream, then two more. “Come on—“

Because she was listening for it, she heard the last _swish_ , but didn’t hear it impact.

“Got the gas arrow through the doors right before it closed. Don’t know if it triggered— the signal might not reach through the dirt.”

“How am I going to get in if you gassed the front door?”

“It breaks down fast in the air, but it sticks around in the blood. Once you’re out, you’re out for a while.”

She saved her breath and kept running. Another minute brought her to where she could see the truck, and the dead bodies around the cart. She hesitated, wriggled forward on her belly, and carefully stripped the gloves off the dead man with the smallest hands. Then she lifted the cover on the cart.

It was a cardboard box labeled with the biohazard sign, and the top was open. The inside was full of cardboard separators containing plastic tubes. The tubes were full of colorless liquid. “These all say ‘Ogallala’ on them.”

“Oh, fuck.”

She didn’t know what that meant, but apparently it was bad. Counting on Clint’s gas arrow having worked, and the camera monitors being right by the front door and therefore currently unattended— a shaky assumption— she searched the driver’s pockets until she found his keys. Then she opened the truck. “Is this thing going to blow up if the acid hits the wrong thing in the engine?”

“Shouldn’t. Fuel tank’s not anywhere near.”

She picked up the box of tubes.

“Nat—“

“Shut up.” She shoved it in the backseat, threw the keys under the driver’s seat, locked the doors, threw her gloves on top of the box, and shut the doors.

An arrow flew past the other side of the truck, and she heard a _crash-tinkle._ “Something reflected in the hillside, I think they were moving a camera lens to look at you— _DOWN!_ ”

She threw herself to the ground behind the wheel of the truck and covered her head with her arms as there was a _chukka-chukka-chukka_ , followed by an almost imperceptible _whiff_ of something light hitting the dirt. Over the earpiece, Clint was swearing continuously and filthily. Another arrow _swish_ , and then an explosion rocked the truck.

“Are you hit?” he demanded.

She untucked her head and looked around. Littering the ground in a spray pattern in front of the truck were dozens of familiar-looking darts, stuck point-down in the dirt.

“Romanoff! _Are you hit_.”

The line of darts stopped a couple of inches from her knee— they’d made it over the hood of the truck, but the cab had been too high. She moved carefully, untucking each limb and checking it, then running her hands over her neck, her skull, and her back.

“ _Nat_ —“ She heard quick moving.

“I’m not hit. Hold your position.”

She heard a quick exhale over the comms, then the movement stopped. “I took out the dart gun, but they might have another. And I only have so many explosive arrows.”

“What about acid arrows?”

“Yeah. Got another. Why?”

“I can’t reach,” she said. “Would you please knock for me?”

She heard a soft, dark chuckle, and then the familiar sound of an arrow flying through the air and hitting its target. “Got it in pretty deep. Hope it hit the metal. Give it a minute.”

She pulled her Widow’s Bites from her pocket and fastened them on, which she should have done earlier. They were in semi-civilian garb for this mission— intended to be surveillance only— which meant Clint had most of his usual gear but she was short. 

“Yeah, the middle’s sinking, warping,” he reported.

She crouched, and looked over the hood of the truck. A gap in the hillside was opening, but not a large one, which meant--

“They’re coming!”

H.Y.D.R.A. agents started boiling out of the hillside like ants. They were wearing body armor, which meant—

“They’ve got dart guns,” Clint said grimly. They hadn’t seen her yet, so she stayed low. An arrow flew by and skewered a soldier and the one behind him, sending them both staggering back, an awkward, grotesque creature that stumbled into two of its fellows in its death throes. “Must be bogo day.”

“Must be what?” she murmured.

“Buy one, get one— never mind.” Another arrow.

Finally they turned towards the truck, and Nat popped up, killing three soldiers, one-two-three. The gunshots were loud— except for the explosion, everything so far had been quiet death. Six down— no, seven, another fell, transfixed. The remaining ones turned as one to flee inside.

“He said ‘some’ soldiers,” Clint said. “Think this could be it?”

“They’re saving themselves for something,” she agreed.

“Marriage?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Never mind.”

She ignored him, vaulted over the hood of the truck, and charged after the retreating soldiers. If they were between her and the door, the ones inside would have a hard time shooting at her, which meant all she needed to do was keep _them_ from shooting her—

One turned, bringing up that damned dart gun. She ducked and rolled forward, came up under his arm, and grabbed it with both hands, bending it _up_ at a sharp angle. The _crack_ was audible. He screamed and dropped the dart gun— his fellows turned— she dropped one hand, grabbed her gun, and shot them, three shots. One of them managed to return fire before she hit him. The bullet _thudded_ into the back of her captive’s body armor. He groaned and sagged towards her. She kicked the dart gun backwards with her boot and forced him to walk backwards, one hand on her gun, the other steering him right above the break in his arm.

“They’re moving inside—“ An arrow flew past their shoulders and found someone in the dark hill, who screamed. Another arrow, another scream. Nat paused, tightened her grip on her captive’s arm— he whimpered— and put down her gun just long enough to yank her infrareds over her eyes. He went for her with his left hand— she brought her right wrist up and jammed the back of her hand into the gap between his sleeve and glove, forcing the electrodes into contact with his skin. _Sizzle_ — he screamed again. She yanked her hand away. She wanted him stunned, not dead. She grabbed her gun again and forced him backwards quickly, because the infrareds were a detriment in the open space.

They stumbled together through the hole in the hillside. She ducked, still maintaining her grip on his arm, as a rain of darts flew at her. They all missed her, but one hit her captive. He gasped, and then moaned.

Two arrows flew past her so close together she thought he might have shot them together, and the rear guard holding the dart guns, fell down dead. “I can’t cover you once you’re past that corner.”

Her hands were busy. She didn’t see any other signs of movement in what was apparently a small control room, or guard room; there were monitors, and one of them was fuzzy with static—

– but one wasn’t.

Her captive lunged at her. She pulled back from his knife, and shot him between the eyes. His blood spattered her face as his corpse fell. She reached up and clicked her earpiece to transmit continuously. “This is the view from the other monitor,” she panted, as she grabbed the body and pulled the armored vest off. It was big enough to impede her movement, but would provide a little protection from the darts. She needed everything she could get. “It’s a cave— looks like someone’s been cooking meth— out front is a big pine tree, and then it slopes down to a road.”

“Can you read the signs?” He was moving, quickly.

She shook her head. “No.” She tugged the vest on and fastened it. What else was in the picture, that could help them identify the back door? “The cars are going slow. It’s not a main road. Not paved.”

“Where’s the sun— _DOWN!_ ”

She cursed her own carelessness as she dropped to the floor. An arrow sped over her head and killed the man in the lab coat, but not before he got her. _There’s no way he’s a soldier, fucking beginner’s luck!_ The only bright spot, as she pulled the dart out of her arm, was that meant they might be out of soldiers. “The shadow of the pine tree is pointing away from the cave,” she said raggedly. “And to the left. All the shadows are.”

“Are you hit?”

She considered lying, but that would be a terrible idea. “Yes. Go.”

He hesitated for a second. She thought he was going to argue. But he was a professional. They both knew they needed to get the other end bottled up. “I’ll tell you when I’m there. Or you’ll hear.”

“Copy.” Her arm was burning already at the site. _Fuck_. She’d seen what it had done to Coulson and Clint. If Clint had to take on the whole lab himself, their chances of stopping the rest of the biohazards went down from their already slim margin. She searched the bodies until she found one with a lighter, gritted her teeth, and burned out the toxin.

She kept her jaws locked shut and breathed evenly through her nose. She didn’t want Clint to hear her whimper. That was her own flesh singeing and burning— like the time that Madame had—

_Stop._

She'd gotten most of the blue. She pocketed the lighter, and headed deeper inside. There were lights on ahead. She shoved her goggles up, took a gun in each hand, and crept down the hallway, staying low. The corridor was lined with doors on each side— one of them was jammed open in its tracks, showing a hastily abandoned bunk room. Whatever was important would be farther, buried in the heart of the facility.

“I don’t see anyone,” she murmured. “They’re heading for your end.” She got no answer. “Hawkeye.” Silence. “Hawkeye, do you copy.” Silence. She clicked her earpiece twice. Nothing.

He'd taken his earpiece off constant transmit— if something had happened, she wouldn’t have heard it. Maybe he was just tied up in a fight, but she had to assume she was alone now. She pushed away the cold dread, fear— _anger_ , and— it _hurt,_ why the hell--

_You have a job to do._

She heard breathing up ahead, and stopped silently just before the intersection. More than one person— and they were nervous. She smelled the stink of sweat. Not soldiers, then, scientists. A rear guard, while the rest got out? 

Noise on her right—

She turned, dropping, as part of the wall slid away, but there was a cold _prick_ under her jaw, and then darkness.

*

She came back to consciousness. 

She was laying on her side on something cold— probably the floor— ankles together and hands bound behind her back. Her mouth wasn’t gummy, so she hadn’t been out long. She smelled the tang of chemicals and heard a quiet _swishing_. She also heard quiet footsteps, but they didn’t echo like they would have in a large room, or in the hall. So: someone had drugged her, and then dragged her into the secret room that had opened up. H.Y.D.R.A.’s designer had been smart. They’d built places for ambushes, essential for any outnumbered defensive force, right into the complex.

The footsteps came closer, then retreated. She risked cracking her eyes open. She saw the heels of a pair of practical tennis shoes, and floor-to-ceiling cabinets with lots of drawers. A lab, then.

She opened her eyes more. The shoes belonged to a woman with close-cropped blonde hair and a lab coat. She bent over something on one of the benches, murmuring to herself.

Natasha tested the bonds. They were poor— the woman had probably tied them herself. But her limbs wouldn’t entirely cooperate. Whatever was in that damned needle hadn’t worn off entirely. She reassured herself that at least the darts didn’t knock people out— but maybe this was a new, improved version.

The shoes started to turn. Natasha closed her eyes and made sure she was limp.

“You’re too good to give it away,” the woman said, in accented English, “but I’m sure you’re conscious by now. The sedative doesn’t last very long.”

Natasha opened her eyes, pretending to be groggier and more disoriented than she was. “Who’reyou,” she slurred.

The woman smiled, tight and close-lipped. “Am I correct in thinking I address the Black Widow? It’s such an honor. We’ve heard so much about you— even before we learned you were working for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

 _Learned_. Not _discovered_. Someone had told them?

“This is what is going to happen,” the woman continued. “We are going to send the second shipment out by truck. If anyone tries to stop us, we will hook up a video feed from that camera—“ She nodded to a security camera by the door— “And tell them we will shoot you if they hinder us in any way. If you try to escape, I will shoot you with this—“ She picked up a dart gun from the lab bench— “and leave you to die. You were in Munich. You know what that’s like.”

She didn’t recall leaving a lot of living H.Y.D.R.A. soldiers in Munich, which was another indication that someone had sold them out. Could that have been Broad sending information during the battle? Something to check— if she made it out alive. “Lookslike ‘sgonna be long time,” she mumbled. “Yer still tinkering.”

The woman smiled. “Oh, this? This is just a little farewell present to the people of Haralson County, when the base self-destructs. If they do not die on contact with it, they will die when it gets into their water supply.” She paused. “But don’t worry. This room is reinforced, so you won’t get crushed by a falling beam. You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy the full effects of the darts, and the poison.”

She was a scientist— _Scientists: prone to monologuing._ “Why here?” she slurred. “Pop’lation twenny five thousand. Not ‘xactly high-value target.”

The woman smiled again, and bent over her equipment— a series of connected glass vessels and tubes, the base of which was immersed in gently bubbling water. Or something that looked like water. “H.Y.D.R.A. isolated a very useful strain of pathogenic bacteria from Tokaj in Hungary. But it proved intractable for our purposes. We sent agents to every area where Hungarian settlers had dispersed and subsequently grown wine, looking for a relative that had colonized another area. We found several promising prospects here. And then— why not? The caves were here. The security, in this backwater _village_ , was laughable. We could work here, and have easy proximity to our target when we were done.”

“Target?”

“The aquifers. But you already knew that, since you locked our initial batch in the back of that truck. Somebody should have retrieved it by now, in case you were worried— we sent one group out to find and kill your archer friend, and another to open the truck. The archer would be Hawkeye, I presume?”

“Nng.” She pretended to look more dismayed than she was. If they had any extra soldiers, they’d be here, guarding her. That meant whoever was after Clint was, at best, a small group, of mixed scientists and whatever soldiers were still alive. “Aq’fers?”

The woman nodded. “We’ll insert the toxin at a variety of deep wells. Millions of people will be sickened. The United States will not stand.”

Natasha almost had her hands free. Her weapons were piled on the bench, on the woman’s other side— even her Widow’s Bites. She looked around the room for something she could use to help, and saw a small white box in the shadows on a high shelf. It had a square red cross on the side— and next to it was a small tube labeled in German. “So H.Y.D.R.A.’s tryinta catch up to A.I.M., ‘sthat it?”

“Are you trying to bait me, Agent Romanoff?” The woman sounded amused.

 _Romanoff_. Someone had definitely leaked. No one outside S.H.I.E.L.D. knew her new name. She left the ropes around her wrist, and started working on her ankle. “’ve seen what they’ve done, ’s all,” she said. “’s a pretty high bar.”

“A.I.M. thinks small,” the woman said dismissively. “They are always after the next grand robot or monster that will stun the world. Our plan is much simpler. Fewer moving parts. No control center to be blown up, no transmissions to be jammed. Elegant in its simplicity, one might say.”

 _Only if one were a massive egotist without vision or any sense of history._ She pulled one loop over her ankle and tugged on the other to make sure it wasn’t connected to anything. Working free of the ropes had restored sensation and motor control to her hands, but she couldn’t be sure her legs would hold her until she tried--

“I warned you.” The woman reached for the dart gun—

Natasha rotated herself on the tile, finding cover behind the lab bench, as the darts thudded into where her head had just been. She got her feet under her— and then the woman careened around the end of the lab bench faster than Natasha had expected— she rolled to the side and barely got out of the way— she stood up inside the woman’s reach and grabbed her arm, keeping the gun pointed out and away from both of them—

The woman broke free as if Natasha wasn’t holding her at all. Natasha hit her hard in the ribs, once, twice; the woman staggered, but didn’t go down. Natasha grabbed her arm and brought her wrist down towards her knee— and the woman pulled free. “I am the only daughter of Johann Schmidt!” she sang, and smiled wide, revealing sharp teeth. _Very_ sharp, too sharp to be natural. She lunged forward and went for Natasha’s throat--

 _Fuck_ — Natasha saw instead another woman, with steel-grey hair, faster than she should have been, and her breath caught in her throat—

 _No!_ Natasha thrust her fingers at the other woman’s eyes, and she instinctively recoiled. Natasha boosted herself onto the bench and launched herself off the other side, cartwheeling down the narrow aisle before the woman had quite recovered— she was fast, and strong, but not as flexible. Natasha reached for her weapons—

“Freeze!” The woman leveled the dart gun at her face. She wouldn’t make it in time, not across the open aisle.

She lunged anyway. The darts thudded into her shoulder, one-two-three, spreading fiery pain where they hit, and then her hand closed on her gun. _Fought one monster, fought them all._ Her first shot took off the end of the dart gun; her second and third took the woman between the eyes. She staggered back, head a ruined mess— Natasha wasn’t going to wait to see if she was like Victor Modok. She followed the bullets with two more, one to each hand, then a knife thrown into the woman’s jugular. Blood started gushing out. Even if she _could_ regenerate herself, that should keep her busy.

Self-destruct. She’d mentioned a self-destruct. Natasha grabbed a pair of gloves and approached the woman’s body, hoping that wasn’t a terrible idea. She avoided the rapidly growing puddle of blood, because who _knew_ what the hell was in it. She checked the woman’s ears, pulled out the earpiece, and backed away hurriedly. But the woman stayed dead.

Next: she pulled out each of the darts, wincing as the movement jostled the inflamed part of her shoulder. Her upper arm was going numb already, and the fire was spreading into her chest, the triple dose terrifyingly effective. No time to screw around with a lighter. She stood on the bench and reached for the shelf, grabbing the tube she’d seen earlier. ‘Battle dart antidote,’ it said in German. This _could_ be a trap, another way to kill her horribly if she escaped, but she had to take that risk or she’d die horribly anyway. Inside the tube were three syringes and a sheet of instructions. She scanned them— _one syringe per affected person_ — _more in case of double exposure_ — she plunged one syringe into her shoulder and depressed the plunger.

Horrible, icy, painful cold spread through her veins. _It was a trap_. She staggered and pitched forward off the bench, barely managing to land on her feet. The syringe tore free from her shoulder at the impact. She patted her pockets, searching for her phone— someone needed to know what had happened—

And then the feeling dissipated, leaving lessened burning in her chest and arm and increased soreness in her abused shoulder. _Of course. It’s H.Y.D.R.A. The cure is nearly as bad as the poison._ She gritted her teeth and injected the second one. This time the feeling didn’t take her by surprise. She leaned against the bench, head down, until it passed. Then she pocketed the third syringe and the instructions and slid the earpiece in.

An automatic voice was counting down in German from three minutes and twenty-seven seconds. A man’s voice cut in over it, calling for Frau Schmidt. “You _must_ get clear! Once the initial charges blow, the sequence will not be able to be turned off!”

She headed out the door at a run, and fumbled for the on-switch of the earpiece; they were designed differently from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s. “This is Frau Widow,” she replied in German. “Frau Schmidt is unavailable. And immobile. I recommend you cancel the self-destruct if you don’t want to blow her to pieces.” 

Audible consternation on the other end of the line. The man demanded: “How do we know she’s still alive?”

“You don’t,” Natasha said. “But if you’re familiar with her _enhancements_ , you can understand that even I would have a hard time killing her.” This— _this_ — was what manipulating people was about. She had told no lies. She had merely let them extrapolate what they wanted to extrapolate.

“And if you need a more self-interested motivation,” she added, looking frantically for anything resembling a control panel, “Frau Schmidt did not finish her work before I incapacitated her. She was still tinkering with her ‘farewell present.’ Whatever comes out of that beaker will be an unknown mixture.”

“ _What_ farewell present?!”

“She was creating a poison to get aerosolized in the explosion. I guess she thought you were all disposable.”

The man snarled something angry. She ignored him, looking for anything that looked likely to cancel the self-destruct. How long had it been running for? If she were building a self-destruct into a facility this size, she wouldn’t make it any more than ten minutes. But she didn’t know how long she’d been unconscious. They could have set it as soon as she and Clint had breached the facility, which would mean that the remaining scientists were on their way out with the second batch now. Clint had been going to stop them—

Her stomach clenched. She felt a pain in her chest, distant from where the darts had hit her, a dull ache. It had to be a side effect of the darts, or the needle, or the antidote. She couldn’t think about Clint now. 

Shut down the bombs, save the surrounding area, and let the second batch get out of the area, or chase after the scientists and let whatever poison Schmidt had managed to concoct aerosolize when the place blew? Had she expected the others to be away already, out of range of the poison and still able to deliver the other toxin to the aquifer? Or was the range, in fact, much shorter than she had implied?

She heard running over the earpiece, and stopped, ducking into an alcove and pulling the thing out of her ear. Yes— she heard the footsteps echoing in the hall, too, getting closer. One person, alone, not worried about stealth even though there was a deadly assassin loose in their facility. Someone disarming the self-destruct, then.

Whoever it was took a corner and then ran away at a cross-angle. Natasha slipped silently through the corridors in pursuit. A door _swoosh_ ed open— she turned down the cross-corridor—

“Frau Schmidt is lying in a pool of blood, you lying bitch,” the man snarled after a few seconds of dead silence. “This place will burn, and you will burn with— _gaack!_ ”

He tumbled to the ground. She straightened up and surveyed the room. There were more monitors here; one was focused on the lab where Schmidt had held her. A display was counting down from one minute forty. She studied the control panel directly beneath it, looking for some hint—

Well, that was why she’d left him alive. She crouched and hauled him up. “Tell me how to shut down the self-destruct.”

“Never,” he gasped. He flailed, but he had no chance of breaking free.

She drew a knife and placed the point right below his eyeball. “Tell me.”

He went very still, and swallowed visibly. “We’ll both be dead in sixty seconds. You can’t make me—“

She pressed.

He took a breath and held it, shaking.

A very tiny amount of blood oozed from the split in his skin.

“Cee-three-five-oh-nine-gee-em-seven-enter-enter!” he gasped.

She let up enough to provide positive reinforcement for his cooperation, but not enough to take the threat away, and shoved him around so he was over the control panel. “Enter it.”

He bent over the control panel. His fingers shook, but he entered it accurately. The voice counting down in her ear paused. Then it said, “Self-destruct canceled.”

She took her knife out of his eye. He gasped for breath. Before he could recover, she hit him, hard, in the back of his head. He crumpled to the ground. She would just as soon have killed him— her professional detachment buckled in the face of people who’d nearly killed millions, apparently— but S.H.I.E.L.D. always liked to “talk” to whatever H.Y.D.R.A. higher-ups they could find. She found an extension cord, better than nothing, and bound his hands behind his back, then tied him to a desk. She switched Schmidt’s earpiece out for his. “Herr Hirsch, status?” a man was asking.

She listened as she ran. She heard air rushing in the background, wind, or movement past a vehicle. She had to assume they had already gotten out. She would find a car, call it into S.H.I.E.L.D., and chase them. It was unlikely that they were sticking the toxin into a nearby well— if they were, they could have just carried it on foot. So as long as she could keep them in sight—

Something screeched in her ear. She ducked and whirled, looking for the source, and then spun three hundred and sixty degrees as a woman lunged out of cover, holding a gun. The screeching got louder as she got closer— _feedback_? She was wearing a lab coat, but she looked like she knew how to use the gun— she stayed out of range of Natasha’s arms— 

Natasha dove forward, dodging the bullet, and came up under the other woman’s legs. She rolled onto her shoulders, kicked up, and propelled the other woman off her feet, onto the floor. She was fast— another Schmidt?— but Natasha was faster, and shot her before she could recover. But her roll had strained her much-abused shoulder, and it burned with a pain that took her breath away. She bit back a whimper, staggered to her feet, and kept going.

The corridor ended abruptly in a dead end. _What? No._ Hirsch had come this way, and the woman had been guarding this hall, not the short cross-corridors. She remembered the ambush, and searched the wall more carefully. Yes— part of it was a bare half a centimeter above the floor. How did it open? She ran her fingers along the surrounding wall, feeling for any give, any irregularity—

She turned her head to feel the corner. _Fuck, I don’t have time for this._ She backtracked to the nearest lab and found a sturdy chair with metal legs. She backed up, swung, and put a solid dent in the wall her first try. Her shoulder burned. She swung again, and the wall crumpled. She was hitting the wrong part, the strong part— but it had bent enough to let her see the locking mechanism. She stabbed it with a vicious downward stroke. It triggered, and the door swung halfway open— and then stopped, caught on the dent. _Damn it!_ She grabbed it, _forced_ it farther into the wall— and that was enough.

Beyond was a cave, with a familiar-looking box of vials— they hadn’t gotten any farther?—

— and then she saw the four bodies tied up in a row against the wall.

— and then she saw the figure silhouetted against the setting sun at the mouth of the cave.

“I— thought you were dead,” she gasped.

He lowered his bow. “You were underground.”

Underground. The metal and the dirt must have blocked the signal. The adrenaline of the fight started to wear off; her legs went shaky.

He took another step inside and frowned. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Vampire with a dart gun.” Her voice was ragged as the pain rushed back. “What about the other end? There might be more—“

“I called the police. Told them there were weapons of mass destruction and to get the F.B.I. They showed up a few minutes ago. You were down there a while.”

She blinked. “We do that?”

“Not like S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t get it back if they want it.”

She looked down at the bound scientists. “So.”

“I called it in. Reinforcements are on the way.”

“This is… it, then.” It had gone from reconnaissance to impossible fight to over so quickly she was dizzy. Or maybe that was the unknown chemicals in her bloodstream.

“Apparently.”

“If you have things handled here,” she said after a minute, “I’ll check out the other end.”

He nodded. “It’ll be difficult, but I think I can manage.” He pointed his bow at the four bound, unconscious figures again.

“There may be more in there— I turned off the self-destruct, but if someone knows how to re-enable it…” Shit, they just needed more _people_. She and Clint couldn’t hold captives and an entire facility and two boxes of aquifer-killing toxin by themselves. “There was a group that was supposed to come kill you.”

“Yeah, that was them, they weren’t very good at it.”

She looked closer. None of them had any arrow wounds. She looked up at him again. He shrugged, and smirked.

She slipped out of the cave and headed overland at a jog to the facility’s main entrance. It was surrounded by police cars, men in various uniforms bustling around importantly, and lots of yellow tape. One of them frowned when he saw her— frowned hard, because he didn’t see her until she was nearly on top of him. “Ma’am, you need to turn around and go back the way you came. This area is under FBI control.”

She folded her arms across her chest and stared at him. She was wearing both guns openly now, someone with sharp eyes would have noticed that her bracelets were not just decorative, and, if Clint’s reaction was anything to go by, she looked terrible. “I’m Agent Romanoff, with S.H.I.E.L.D. My partner called in the presence of the weapons to the police.” She showed him her ID.

He frowned again, but stepped back to let her past. “Show me what you’ve done,” she said.

“What we’ve done?”

She gave him a hard stare. “You’re processing the scene, aren't you? Show me. How have you secured the biohazards? S.H.I.E.L.D. has extensive protocols for this sort of thing, but I’m not familiar with those of the FBI.” No sneering— she didn’t want to alienate him, just make him jump to her commands.

“Ah— yes, ma’am.” He hurried to fall into step beside her. “We’re moving the weapons into an airtight, code-locked box. Only the agent in charge has the combination—“

“Does someone back at your headquarters also have the combination?”

He blinked at her. “I don’t believe so.”

“Then what happens if your agent in charge gets killed on the way?”

“Er,” he said. “I’ll make that point to him.”

“Take me over, I’ll make it myself.”

“Ah, as you can see, we’re very busy…”

She turned her head just far enough to stare at him, for a beat, and then looked away. Then she looked around for the agent everyone else was deferring to. “That man? I’ll go myself.”

The agent next to her scrambled to keep up, apparently thinking it would look better if he at least appeared to be shepherding her. “Dobson?” snapped the agent she’d singled out, when they were in range. He turned to look at her. “Who’re you?”

“Agent Romanoff, of S.H.I.E.L.D. My partner and I discovered the threat and neutralized the facility.”

He looked her over, from head to toe and back again— for once not leering, but coldly assessing. He wasn’t immediately impressed and flustered like his subordinate, who had now melted back into the crowd of people. She could appreciate that. Easily manipulable people made her life easier, but the _ease_ with which they were manipulable was sometimes disturbing.

“Your partner?” he said. “We were given to understand there was a team.”

“Yes: Agent Barton, and I.”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s quite a body count. You killed all of them yourselves?”

“You’re welcome.”

“You know, I hadn’t even heard of S.H.I.E.L.D. until the call came in.”

She let her own eyebrows go up a little. “We’re very good at what we do. Agent…?”

“Jamieson.” He extended his hand. She shook it. “Well, we’re very grateful for your assistance, Agent Romanoff—“

“Actually, I think that’s my line.”

“Come again?”

We _didn’t assist_ you _._ You _assisted_ us _. All we need you for is the cleanup._ “Dobson indicated you were moving the vials?”

“Yes, under armed—“

“You need to give someone else the combination. That stuff is too volatile to have to drill through the box if you get ambushed and killed along the way.”

His eyes narrowed. “Should I expect to be?”

“These people established a foreign bioterrorism laboratory within a hundred miles of a major city without anyone— but S.H.I.E.L.D.— noticing. You should expect that they can do anything.”

“Very well,” he said after a moment. “The prisoners will be—“

“Released into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody.”

His cool stare turned noticeably hostile. “That’s not acceptable, Agent Romanoff.”

“I wasn’t asking your opinion. I was telling you how it’s going to be.”

He raised one eyebrow, faintly contemptuous. “Are you and your partner going to handle them all?”

“If necessary. But it shouldn’t be. We have a team on the way.”

“I wasn’t informed.”

“We’ve been a little busy,” she said drily. Then, with the air of making a concession: “When the S.H.I.E.L.D. team arrives, they may be willing to let you have some of the prisoners.”

“How kind of them.”

“We like to be cooperative.” A pause, as she watched agents start to venture inside the doors. “Your people should stay out of the labs. There are things in there they’re not prepared for.”

“Agent Romanoff, we know how to do our jobs—“

“Or you could disregard the intel of the one person who’s been inside.”

She kept staring straight ahead, but in her peripheral vision, saw him look at her, then away. “All agents, stay out of the labs,” he said into his walkie-talkie a moment later. “Repeat, stick to the corridors and other spaces only. Stay out of the labs.”

She heard chatter over the walkie-talkie, but couldn’t make it out.

“It’s hazardous,” Jamieson said. Pause. “We’ll wait for another team. Or a thorough debrief with… S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Her own earpiece activated: “S.H.I.E.L.D. team ETA, twenty minutes.”

“What did they do, drive like you?”

“No one drives like me.”

“Thank God for small mercies.”

Jamieson was giving her a weird look, so she saved the ribbing for later. Someone on his end said something inaudible, and he replied: “Do you see a body?” Pause. “Open the door, but be careful. Don’t disturb the scene.”

She could only think of one room that fit that description. “Tell them to stay out of there.”

Jamieson looked annoyed. “Agent Romanoff, hard as it seems for you to believe, I’m in charge here.”

 _Like hell you are_. “The woman your agent just found is not entirely human.”

He stared at her. Then: “What the hell do you people _do_?”

“The things no one else does.”

He looked disconcerted, still, and lifted his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Hold off on investigation of that body, it’s a possible biohazard.”

Body. She’d left Frau Schmidt in the lab, the other woman at the end of the corridor— and Hirsch in the control room, alive. “There may still be live terrorists in there.”

“Live fire? What a terrifying concept. We’ll do our best.”

She didn’t smile, because she didn’t want him to think she was laughing at him. She—

A scream from inside. She shoved past Jamieson and ran for the mouth of the facility, with him on her heels. His walkie-talkie crackled— she couldn’t hear what they were saying— she jumped through the mangled door and sprinted through the control room. About twenty feet down the corridor, an agent was slumped over, rocking back and forth in pain; at the other end of the corridor, Hirsch was holding a dart gun.

“Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot!” he yelled, in accented English.

“We have the antidote!” she yelled back. “Put down the gun!” She advanced on the downed agent, but Hirsch made a threatening gesture with the gun. 

“Stay where you are or I’ll shoot you both!”

“Agent Romanoff, we do not negotiate with terrorists!” Jamieson said behind her.

“We need him alive.”

“This is the FBI’s operation now, not—“

“I turned his boss’s head into Jello. We need him alive.” She raised her voice, and her gun. “I can shoot your non-vital body parts from here! Put down the gun!”

“Never mind,” Jamieson murmured. “I like your negotiating style.”

“These are my dema— _urk!_ ” Hirsch dropped the gun and pitched forward on his face, arrow sticking out of his back. Only the tip was buried in his skin; she recognized one of Clint’s tranq arrows.

“What the _fuck_? Is that a—“

“I don’t believe you and Agent Barton have met. He’s S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best marksman.”

Jamieson’s look was half disbelief, half awe. “With a _bow_.”

“With anything, really.”

“You’re gonna make my head swell up,” Clint said in her ear.

She tapped her earpiece, and didn’t care if Jamieson heard: “You’re confusing compliments with blows to the head.”

“There’s somethin’ I wanna check out this end. Maybe another exit. No one got out that way, but there could be someone hiding out. Things down there under enough control that you can come watch these guys?”

“Yes.” She released her earpiece. “I need to investigate a possible situation,” she told Jamieson, and started down the corridor. As she passed the downed agent, she handed her the syringe: “This is the antidote.”

By the time she reached Hirsch, he was already tied up, with actual rope this time. “Sorry it took me so long,” Clint said when she got to the cave at the other end. “Couldn’t actually see him. Had to work off of the reflection.”

“It’s fine. Where’s this other exit?”

He led her outside the cave, to where they could both still keep an eye on the bound prisoners, and pointed. But it was too dark for her to see anything, and the infrared wasn’t— helpful. _God, I almost thought ‘illuminating,’ he’s rubbing off on me._ “Go, I’ll watch here.”

He disappeared into the night. She watched the prisoners. He’d found duct tape, somewhere, and gagged them. Two of them were awake; one was glaring, the other was glaring and making muttering noises behind the tape. She rubbed her shoulder. God, she needed Medical, and then sleep. Neither she nor Clint had gotten any since they’d taken Aza home. 

A loud _crash_ from the direction Clint had gone. She yanked her infrareds over her face. She saw Clint bent over, grappling with someone who was trying to stab him. She drew her gun, but she couldn’t shoot without hitting him—

The H.Y.D.R.A. agent hit Clint hard, a vicious groin blow that made him stagger back, retching. He kept a grip on the agent, valiantly, but the other man broke free with a blow to Clint’s ribs and sprinted away. _He_ wasn’t wearing infrareds— she faded back into the entrance of the cave— he bolted fast, and she tackled him, flipping him, then flipping herself, then throwing him to the ground again. He stayed down for an instant, then lunged for her throat—

The gunshot rocked his body. He gasped, and sank down, clutching his bleeding leg. She stepped out of range and looked back at Clint, who was still doubled over, one hand on his stomach, one on his gun. “Here,” he gasped, holstered his gun, and tossed her some rope.

She tied the H.Y.D.R.A. agent up with the others and put a rough bandage over his leg. Clint had staggered back to the mouth of the cave, more or less upright.

“Are you all right?” she asked after a minute. With very few men would she ask that, because with very few men could she be sure they wouldn’t turn it into a joke about how their balls desperately needed her attention.

“Been better.”

“Will you live?”

“Oh, sure. And I wasn’t plannin’ on having kids anyway.” He straightened up. 

Their latest capture started ranting in German, too muffled, fast, and angry for her to catch up. The meaning was clear enough. “You think after the two of us _keep kicking their asses_ , they’d get the message.” She prodded him with her foot. “I’m tempted to turn them over to the local police and tell them what they were planning to do.”

Clint smiled appreciatively. “Your instincts aren’t far wrong.”

They heard the _crunch_ of tires on leaves, and turned, but it was a S.H.I.E.L.D. car. _Thank God._ Another pulled up behind it, and she heard new voices across the hill, too. “They must have scrambled all of the Atlanta station.”

“Agent Barton?” A woman got out of the car and approached them.

“Yes. Hi. This is Agent Romanoff.”

“I’m Agent Brennan. This is my team.”

“Glad you could join us. The party’s over, but you can help with the cleanup.” Clint pointed. “These are the live ones, plus one more inside. Toxin’s here and on the other end—“

“The FBI has that one,” Natasha supplied.

Clint and Brennan both made a face. “— and there are bodies all over the place,” Clint finished.

“They stayed out of the labs. I convinced them it was dangerous. There’s a woman in one of them— bring her body back to S.H.I.E.L.D., carefully. There’s something unusual about her.”

“Ruiz, Penton, take care of this end,” Brennan said. “I’m going to go meet our FBI friends.”

The adrenaline was all gone now. Natasha was glad to stand back and watch other agents clean up the mess. She leaned against a tree and tried to hide how _done_ she felt. _You’re getting weak, Romanoff_.

Brennan came back. S.H.I.E.L.D. trucks arrived. They loaded the prisoners in one, and the toxins in the other. The second truck left, escorted by two S.H.I.E.L.D. cars and some police cars. “The second wave will be here soon to take over the facility,” Brennan said. “They should be here within the hour.” She looked them over. “You’re free to stand down. You look like you both need some sleep and a doctor.”

“What happens to these guys?” Clint asked.

“There’s a helicopter staging point not far from here. We’re taking them to Leonard Wood. There was some concern that the ground would collapse on the caves if we brought too many helicopters in the vicinity here.”

Clint nodded. “Is Agent Coulson in the loop on all this?”

“He’s in the field on an emergency call, but my understanding is he’s coming as soon as he gets in.”

“Good to know. Thank you, Agent Brenn—“

“HEY!”

All three of them spun, weapons in hand. The man Clint had pulled from the ground had broke from the truck, about ten paces away, still bound. He limped quickly forward, hands behind his back— she and Clint went one way, Agent Brennan went the other— the man came straight at them— he ducked towards a pile of equipment waiting to be loaded, and did a controlled fall to the ground— the pile tottered— a large plastic jug flew in their direction, and as the lid came off in mid-air, it sprayed all three of them with a clear, colorless liquid—

Natasha turned her face away instinctively. It splashed across her back and legs. The man stumbled to his feet and kept going. She caught up with him in three steps and tackled him. Her knee ended up in the back of his injured calf, and he screamed. She kept him down, and didn’t roll off of him until she saw feet around her— other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents waiting to bind him more securely. “ _Why_ weren’t his legs bound?” she demanded. Some of the unknown liquid from her clothes had gotten on the man’s exposed flesh— she was relieved to note he didn’t die on contact. “And what the hell is that stuff?”

“Because of the gunshot wound.”

“He’s lost that privilege now. Tie his legs.” She wasn’t in charge here, but if Agent Brennan disagreed, Natasha could be persuasive.

“Yes, Agent Romanoff.”

“Acid.” Brennan came up behind them holding the jug with gloved hands. Clint was behind _her_ , trying to blot his clothes without actually touching the stuff. He’d gotten more of it, across his sweatshirt and pants.

_Good thing this was a winter op, or he wouldn’t have been wearing sleeves._

“Just a mild acid. I don’t think he was aiming for that specifically. It just happened to be on top.” She held the jug so Natasha could read it by the light of the nearest flood. “We're hooking up a hose now. Get out of those clothes and you'll be fine.”

Natasha looked around. She hated the thought of stripping down in front of a bunch of strange agents, some of whom would consider seeing her naked body as some sort of accomplishment, but she needed to be rational. She glanced at their recapture as the agents hauled him back to the truck. He’d gotten it on his skin, but he wasn’t screaming, she noted with relief. And a little disappointment. She was willing to tolerate some discomfort for the sake of _schadenfreude_.

Brennan tossed her a set of keys. “Here, move the car for a little privacy.”

“Thanks.” She held the keys up so Clint could see them. He nodded, wiped his hands off, and grabbed his bow and quiver. She pulled the car about twenty feet away, on the other side of the prisoner truck. They were having some difficulty with the hose. She waited uneasily. Her skin wasn’t stinging. Would it sting, if the acid got through? Or would it just go numb? Her clothes were still intact. She could pull the leg of her trousers up without touching the acid, and get a look at the skin underneath, but she didn’t want to potentially spread it over more of her leg.

Another agent jogged up. “Here, we had this in our chemical spill kit.” He tossed Clint a box of baking soda.

“What about the _hose_ \--”

The S.H.I.E.L.D. truck started with a _roar_. They barely had time to dive for cover before it sideswiped the car, roaring away around a long curve, kicking up dust going about ninety down the country road. She glanced back and saw bodies on the ground, with no one making a move for the other cars. She scrambled for the driver's side door as Clint swung himself into the passenger side.

She turned on the ignition and floored it. “Did you see who was driv—“

“That bastard we tangled with before.” Clint rolled down the window, nocked an arrow, and leaned out, though they couldn't see the truck yet. “How the _fuck_ did he get free?”

“The acid,” she realized. “They tied his legs without wiping the acid off.”

“Son of a bitch.”

There, ahead-- but the truck went out of sight. She pressed the accelerator even harder, hoping to eke more power out of the engine, and took the curve at a dangerous speed. Luckily, there was no one else on the road, and it didn’t matter that she slid into the other lane going around the curve.

“Have I ever mentioned how much I fucking hate H.Y.D.R.A.?” Clint yelled, head out the window.

“Maybe once or twice in passing!”

The truck was out of sight when they got back onto the straight, but the dust told them which direction it had taken at the T. She barely slowed down to take the corner, and the car rocked on two wheels. “This thing is seriously underpowered.” She floored it again, not sure how they couldn’t even catch up with a _truck_.

“Welcome to my world!”

“Call Brennan!”

The truck came in sight, then disappeared again. Clint was fumbling with his phone, cradling it between shoulder and ear while still keeping his bow aimed ahead. “Give me Agent Brennan, it’s an emergency.” Pause. “I don’t _care_ , do it _now_.” Pause. “We’re pursuing several prisoners who just escaped her custody and we need her status!” A long pause. “She’s not picking up.”

“Damn it.” 

They rocketed around another curve, heading into the even-more-sparsely populated part of the county. A cemetery appeared and then vanished as they bounced down the road. The truck appeared, sideswiped a sign— then pulled out of sight— then she shoved the accelerator down harder, wringing out another smidgeon of speed, and Clint took the shot. The rear tire blew out; the truck fishtailed around, and then plunged into the woods, still making a determined attempt at escape.

“ _Fuck_.” Clint nocked another arrow. She followed the truck, staying in the trail of debris it was blazing through the forest, and watched for hidden rocks as she drove way too fast. Clint should be driving, this wasn’t her specialty— she could _do_ it, but they were at the point where his slightly greater skill could make the difference between a successful capture, and H.Y.D.R.A. getting away. But he was also a better shot than she was, especially in the dark, aiming at a small, moving target. _Too bad you couldn’t be Barton, Romanoff, that would solve all our problems._

They hit a rock. The car jerked hard. She flew into the steering wheel. The other side of the car kept going, and they pivoted around the rock. She fumbled with the steering wheel, throwing the car into reverse— the engine groaned— _No, no, nonononono, Romanoff, you fuckup_ —

Clint leaned even further out the window, perpendicular to the truck for a second, and fired three arrows at it, broadside. One hit the front left tire, and the truck skidded to a stop; one missed and went through the metal skin; one went through the engine block. The far door opened and the driver dove out— Clint fired, up and over the truck, and the man screamed.

They both jumped out and started running— _it could be an ambush_ — but when they got to the other side, he was dead, impaled on the arrow that had continued on into the nearest tree, blood bubbling from his lips. They skidded in the other direction to the back of the truck. It was unlocked, but when they pulled the door open, the H.Y.D.R.A. agents in the back were still bound. The two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents with them were dead from multiple shots to the head and chest.

Clint slammed the door. She guarded it, gun out, while he tried to get Brennan on the phone again. “Good news: we caught the truck,” he said after a minute. “Bad news: you already knew about.” Pause. “Yeah, head south, then east, then south. Then follow the trail of destruction into the woods.” Pause. “No, he’s dead. I didn’t want to risk you letting him get free a _third_ time.” Pause. “Oh, sure, we’ll put our other obligations on hold.”

She started to swat absent-mindedly at her leg and then stopped. That wasn’t a mosquito. That was burning, not pricking. “Damn.”

“What?” Then he narrowed his eyes. “Oh.”

She breathed, and forced herself to stay calm about the damage to her body. They needed to stay there and guard the H.Y.D.R.A. agents until S.H.I.E.L.D. showed up. She did this frequently— let herself get hurt or injured— but usually the threat of _permanent_ injury was not nearly so high--

“We passed a fire hydrant. If we can get it open—“

She nodded, and breathed again, and forced herself to stay calm. She looked down, but in the dark, she couldn’t see much. That was probably good.

It seemed like a long time before they heard vehicles approaching. They both faded back farther into the woods, away from the truck and the trail of damage. “It’s S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Clint muttered when the dark shapes appeared on the road.

Agent Brennan was the first out of the car. Even in the dark, Natasha could see the blood trailing down her face, and the way she was limping. “Status?”

Clint pointed at the truck. “They’re all in there except the dead guy, who’s dead, and is pinned to a tree on the other side.”

Brennan looked from him, to his bow, back to him, but her face stayed blank.

“And we’re leaving,” he continued. “The car is shot. You got another one we can use?”

Natasha helpfully tossed the keys back to Brennan. “It might actually start. Whether it goes anywhere is another question.”

Brennan made a face, but waved one of her people forward. “Ruiz, give Agent Barton your keys.”

“Ma’am—“

“Just do it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ruiz handed over the keys, and pointed to the car. “It’s that one.”

They grabbed the baking soda from their last car and headed back up the road. Natasha resisted the urge to swat at her legs, to jump out and roll in the grass, to spit on them, anything to stop the slow burn of the acid. They reached the fire hydrant— and couldn’t get it open. “ _Damn_ it.” Clint looked at his quiver. “I don’t have anything left that can open this without taking the whole thing out.”

The ditch they’d nearly run into had been low, almost empty, but— “Creeks. We passed creeks.”

Clint winced. “I think I saw a sign for some sort of park. Might have showers. If not, we can go with the creek.”

“Yeah.”

They got back in the car, fast. _This is fucking ridiculous. How does my life involve figuring out what source of water to plunge into in January?_

But it was still better than the things she’d done for the Red Room.

It was long minutes to the park. Clint bypassed the gravel parking lot and pulled straight onto the grass next to the little bathhouse. It barely looked big enough to hold two toilets, but when she picked the lock with fumbling hands, there was at least a sink in the middle between the two partitions. That would do. But there was another locked door, which, when picked, opened to reveal minimal cleaning equipment— including two buckets. She tossed it to Clint, who already had the sink on; he stuck one under the tap. Nat pulled off her boots, fingers shaking in her haste, and then her uniform and her weapons; beneath, her skin was red, but not as bad as she’d feared. _Mild. Brennan said it was mild_.

“Here.” The first bucket was full. He emptied his pockets and tossed his clothes next to hers; then he splashed half the water over his chest and down his legs, and handed the bucket to her. She dashed the rest onto her legs. “Oh, _hell_ , I don’t wanna wash this stuff onto my dick.”

“… sorry, can’t help you.” She grabbed the second bucket from under the tap, and replaced it with the first. She slopped half of it on herself and passed it to him. The burning was lessening now, and the water was diluting the acid enough that her feet weren’t tingling.

After a couple more buckets full, her panic started to subside. “Did you get it all?”

“Yeah, think so. You?”

“Yeah.” She took one of the buckets and emptied one of the boxes of baking soda into it, then stuck it under the tap again. When it was full, she stuck her hand in there and swirled, then splashed that on her legs, too. It didn’t fizzle or burn, which was a good sign. She passed it to Clint. She filled the other bucket with baking soda and water, and dropped her uniform in. Pull out, dump water down sink, rinse, repeat with Clint’s uniform. Unfortunately, that left them soaked. So were she and Clint, and they were standing naked in an unheated building.

She started to shake. “Sh-shelter.”

“Blankets in the car. And heat.”

“Yeah.”

They each grabbed their clothes and shoes. The floor was a damp mess, but most of it had gone down the drain, and it would be dry by morning… afternoon. Morning was closer than she wanted to think about. 

Clint dried one of the buckets with paper towels, and dumped their weapons and gear inside. They could check them later, for acid damage, but most of her stuff should be fine. They headed outside. The air was even colder outside, and hit her like a blow. Her nipples _ached_. Clint whimpered.

He opened the car. “Pop the trunk,” she said.

“I can—“

“I’m Russian. Pop the trunk.”

He gave her a grateful glance, opened the trunk, climbed inside, and started the car. She rummaged in the emergency kit before coming to her senses and just grabbing the whole damn thing.

She climbed into the backseat, balanced the emergency kit on the front middle seat, and tore into it, looking for blankets. Space blankets— they’d need those in a minute— ah, here. And chemical heaters, good. And _food_ — for later.

The air was blowing cold still. She groaned, tossed one of the soft blankets up front, and rubbed herself vigorously with the other one. She had too much pride to let her teeth chatter in front of a warm-blood like Clint, but her breathing was uneven with her shivering. 

“Could be worse,” Clint grunted, drying himself. “No handcuffs or dungeon.”

She finished drying herself and discarded the soft blanket in favor of the space blanket. Almost immediately, she started to feel warmer. “Ugh.” She found herself dreaming of beaches, saunas, and even hot days in New York. Almost anything would be better than this.

“I think my balls permanently retracted,” Clint muttered.

“No more worrying about them getting kicked.”

“You’re a terrible human being.”

“You say that like it’s news, Barton.”

After another couple minutes, she felt less like a human icicle, and more just frigid. “So.” She passed one of the food packets to the front seat. “I vote we stay here until our clothes dry, then get dressed and head back.”

“Agreed.” He tore open the packet. “Lemme call in, just in case. Agent Brennan maybe didn’t mention us to whoever she talked to.” He tapped his earpiece. “This is Agent Barton—“ Pause. “Oh. Yes, sir.” Pause. “Yes, we assisted Agent Brennan in neutralizing the remaining hostiles. Repeatedly.” Pause. “Yes, we’re staying in the area and will return to base tomorrow.” Pause. “Yes, sir.” He put his hand down.

“Coulson’s still in the field, that was Robinson. He cleared us to stay out.” Clint chomped down on a protein bar.

She was _exhausted_. All of it— finding Aza, taking her back, making it to Missouri, then heading to Georgia, the stakeout, the fight, all the things she’d gotten shot with— caught up to her. She wanted to sleep, preferably for a couple of years. _You’re getting soft, Romanoff_ , she thought, but with no real force. She had nothing to prove by trying to push past her limits after undergoing so much chemical activity. “Can I have your flashlight?”

Clint passed it over the seat. She trained the beam on her shoulder and tilted her chin to her collarbone to get an idea of the damage. It was one massive bruise, punctuated with needle marks. 

“That looks fun.”

“You have no idea.”

“I think I do.”

“Mmm.” She wouldn't argue. She’d taken more darts, but she’d also gotten the antidote faster than he had. She swapped him the flashlight for the bucket. She pulled out a gun and a knife that had been well away from her legs. Then she closed her eyes and settled back against the seat.

She didn’t even know if she actually got to sleep before headlights splashed across the parking lot and her closed eyelids. She groaned, opened her eyes, and saw an old police car pulling up beside them. She swept the damp cloth blanket over her weapons, and heard Clint do the same thing with the bucket. His bow and quiver were under the seat. The door opened, and a short, white-haired, rather tanned and elderly policeman got out, looking disapproving. 

He approached the car and made a motion for them to roll down the windows. “Crap,” Clint muttered. He turned off the car and rolled down the window. “Can we help you, officer?”

“What are you folks doing here? It’s after sundown, the park is closed.”

“My nephew lost his new birthday present down by the stream earlier. We came back to look for it. I fell in the mud, and she fell in when she helped me out.”

The officer stared, looking unimpressed. But she knew from experience that Clint could play that game just as well, if not better.

“What was it?” the man said after a minute.

“It was some sort of handheld game thing, you know like what the kids have now? Not a GameBoy, a, a Nintendo, what was it…”

“A Wii?”

“Yeah, that was it.”

“And did you find it?”

Clint shook his head. “It’s not worth getting hypothermia over. I hate for him to lose it, but maybe next time he’ll be more careful.”

“Hmmmm.” The officer’s face hadn’t relaxed out of its disapproving scowl. He looked at Clint, stared pointedly at his bare shoulders, glanced over at her, and just as pointedly averted his gaze. “Sonny, step out of the car a minute.”

She tensed, but kept her hands where they were. Clint’s shoulders crept up, ever-so-slightly, but he said, “Sure, officer,” and opened the door.

The officer led Clint around to the other side of the car, where she could see them but not hear. Now that he wasn’t looking straight at her, she tugged the blanket inside her space blanket and let her hand find her gun, just in case. Shooting a police officer would get them in hot water, even as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, but after today she wasn’t prepared to leave anything to chance.

But the conversation was short. Clint came back to the driver’s side, looking chastened, or maybe just freezing. _She_ was freezing, with the window down. “You folks move along, now.” The officer headed for his patrol car. “You can’t be here. I see you here again or parked along the road anywhere, I’ll have to give you a ticket.”

“Yes, sir.” Clint shut the door and turned the car on again. The heat blasted out again, and took the chill off. The officer sat there in his patrol car, pointedly, and watched as Clint reversed out of the parking spot and headed for the road.

“What did he want?” She struggled to a sitting position and managed to get the seatbelt around her space blanket, in case the officer wanted to throw the book at them.

“He told me to make an honest woman out of you.”

“What does that—“

“Means he thinks I should marry you instead of taking advantage of you by just having sex.”

She blinked. Then she blinked again. “I’m a spy. I don’t think a wedding ring would make me honest, unless it were full of truth serum.”

“You wanna go back and tell him that?”

“What did _you_ tell him?”

“I said I was saving up for a ring.”

She gently thumped her head against the side of the door.

But they had bigger problems than the ideas of a backwater cop. Their clothes were still damp; they needed hours for them to dry. She thought about the gossip, the comments that would go around S.H.I.E.L.D. if they called in and asked for someone to bring them clothes. “I saw a house up the road when we were chasing H.Y.D.R.A. It looked deserted. Hole up there, let our stuff dry, then go back in?”

“Yeah.” But he turned into a housing development and headed down the road until they saw the cop pass them on the highway behind. They parked and sat at the end of a cul-de-sac for about five minutes; then they pulled back onto the road and took the highway to the road they wanted. They bounced down the drive, pulled behind the big house with the bulging tower in one corner, and cut the lights. She leaned back and fell asleep.

Then she woke up when the engine sputtered and died.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Clint muttered, sounding just as sleepy and exhausted as she felt. 

“Out of gas?”

“Uh…” He stared at the dashboard. “No. Low, but not out. Or shouldn’t be. But—“ He sniffed. “Do you smell that?”

She sniffed cautiously, and smelled some chemical that she didn’t recognize. “Yeah.”

“Oh, God.”

“If you pop the hood—“

“No. I draw the line at doing car repairs with no tools and no _clothes_.”

“We can’t stay here.” Depending on what was leaking, they could just inhale dangerous fumes, or— given their luck so far— the car could blow up.

“I know.” He watched the house. “No one’s in there. It’ll be cold, but should be safe.”

They grabbed their damp clothes, their shoes, their gear, and the emergency kit, and made the uncomfortable trip across the yard. Clint blocked the wind and held the flashlight for her while she picked the lock, blowing on her fingers to keep them warm enough. Finally they got inside. It was freezing and dusty, but out of the wind.

“I’ll check downstairs, you check upstairs?” He sounded as exhausted as she felt.

She nodded. The house was huge, but the rooms were mostly empty of furniture, making them easy to search. She felt ridiculous in her crinkly blanket, but at least she was not-as-cold as she could be.

There was a pile of old drapes in one room. That was the best they were going to get in terms of blankets. She dropped her clothes, her shoes, and the emergency kit on the floor, and waited for Clint to make it up.

“Downstairs is clear. Basement is clear,” he reported when he finally stumbled inside. She felt bad that he’d searched twice the area she had— she should have guessed there’d be a basement— but she was too tired to care much.

“I found these. They’re not too dusty.”

“Yeah.”

They spread their stuff out to dry, then collapsed onto the stack of drapes. She was too tired to feel self-conscious about sleeping naked next to Clint. She curled up against his back and pulled one of the drapes over them. 

Clint was shaking. She tugged the space blankets out from in between them and pressed herself against him, skin-to-skin. 

“Have I mentioned how much I hate H.Y.D.R.A.?” he murmured drowsily.

“In passing. Once or twice.”

“When we get back, ’m asking to be assigned to an anti-H.Y.D.R.A. task force.”

“It doesn’t usually go well for us when we run into them.”

“I know. That’s why I want to burn them.”

“Sleep now, revenge later,” she yawned.

*

They were so tired that they didn’t wake up until a foot creaked on the stairs.

 _Fuck_. She grabbed her gun, and knew Clint had heard it, too. What was _wrong_ with her, to sleep through the noise of someone getting that far into the house? And they couldn’t get out now, because the space blankets would crinkle loudly at their every move.

The footsteps came closer, closer— She felt Clint tense, and couldn’t even see what was happening—

“This is not an acceptable reason to go off comms,” Coulson said.

She nearly jumped out of her _skin_. She rolled over and saw him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking very unhappy. “What’s not an acceptable reason to go off comms?”

“We didn’t,” Clint said at the same moment. “We called into Agent—“

A burst of adrenaline rushed through her. She and Clint looked at each other.

“— Robinson,” he finished, already moving.

 _That would explain a lot_. 

“Does he know you’re here?” Natasha demanded, strapping on her sheaths.

“No. When he said you hadn’t called in, I homed in on the signal from the car. But anyone with access knows _you’re_ here.”

Clint tapped his earpiece. “Nothing.” He looked up. “Coulson, we called in last night to Robinson, after we got the acid off—“

“The _what_ — never mind.” She saw the moment when Coulson had to pick between two incredibly unpleasant truths: that his people were lying to him, or that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s second-in-command had sold them all out.

And if he didn’t know about the acid, that meant Agent Brennan’s report had, somehow, not reached him.

She tapped her own earpiece, and confirmed that it was blocked. She couldn’t even hear it in her own ear. She strapped on her last sheath and stumbled to her feet, pulling the space blanket around her shoulders in the chilly room. Coulson looked at her, then fixed his gaze very firmly on her face. “Don’t you have any… clothes?”

“Yeah—“ She bent over, grabbed the wet fabric—

— and it came apart in her hands.

“What—“

“Water-resistant,” Clint muttered.

So the water hadn't gotten all the way inside the fabric to wash out the acid. “Not any more.”

Coulson was already stripping out of his suit jacket. He tossed it to her. When she put it on, it came to the middle of her thigh, which hid most of her weapons. She stuffed her feet into her boots— those were intact, at least— and strapped on her holsters. Then she fastened her Widow’s Bites. Coulson had stripped down to his T-shirt now, and handed his shirt to Clint. Clint gave him a look of long-suffering, and tied it backwards around his waist, like a striped loincloth.

There were the drapes— but they didn’t have time to cut them up. Clint’s face went professionally blank, focused on the mission as he shouldered his quiver and strapped on his own holsters. “Our car’s out of commission— could he have disabled it remotely?” They hurried out of the room, towards the stairs.

“Blame later,” Coulson ordered. “I have a car. We can still get out before they—“

“Shit.” Clint backed away from the window at the top of the stairs. She looked past him, and in the dim dawn light, saw what he’d seen: H.Y.D.R.A. agents, swarming over what was presumably Coulson’s car.

“They’re planting a bomb.” Clint saw what she couldn’t make out.

“Can you disarm it?” Bombs weren’t her specialty, or Clint’s, but they’d both handled a few.

“I can.” That shouldn’t have startled her— there probably wasn’t anything Coulson couldn’t do. “But if they’ve found my car, they know I’m here. Or someone else is.” 

“They’ve probably got the place surrounded.” Clint went to the other window to confirm. Out in the middle of nowhere, with lots of open space between the house and the nearest cover, which was full of H.Y.D.R.A. agents anyway, and without transportation even if they could get out— But--

“They must have vehicles nearby,” she said.

“Can we hide, make them come in after us, whittle them down?” Clint suggested.

“If I were them, I would blow up the house with a rocket and then storm the basement,” Coulson said.

“Coulson— does _your_ earpiece still work?” she asked.

He tapped it. “Yes. But I’m sure it’s monitored.”

“And Robinson doesn’t know _you’re_ here.

“Not unless he pulled the signal from my phone. But I told him I was heading for S.H.I.E.L.D. Atlanta to take charge of the interrogations.”

“What’s the name of that general?” Clint asked. “The one who was riding our ass last year because we didn’t give him the tech that he wanted fast enough to track that guy—“

She saw Coulson’s eyes narrow, his _I’m thinking_ expression. “Ross. Thaddeus Ross.” He smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “Let’s see if we can buy ourselves an exit.”

Clint slunk from room to room until he pointed out the glint of a H.Y.D.R.A. vehicle through the trees. “We’ll try this way.”

“Okay. Showtime.” They crouched together under the window; Clint took his rope from the bucket and tied it to the doorknob. Coulson adjusted the frequency of his earpiece, then tapped it. “All S.H.I.E.L.D. units in Haralson County, be advised: this is Agent Coulson in Bremen. Thunderbolt Ross is heading up the highway with a large contingent of Army personnel to take control of the facility. All units, hold your positions. Reinforcements are on the way. General Ross is _not_ authorized to control the facility. Repeat, hold your positions.” He released the button, and switched frequencies. “This is Agent Coulson calling the controlled area. Does anyone copy?” Pause. “What’s your status, Agent Ruiz?” A long pause. “No, they’re still down the highway. Unless he sent an advance guard. It could be H.Y.D.R.A. agents, sneaking back into the area while Ross is distracting us. Be on your guard.” He released the button again and grimaced. “They’re picking up movement in the forest around the facility. H.Y.D.R.A.’s probably planning a two-pronged attack.”

“This could get ugly, fast, unless we get ‘em the truth fast,” Clint muttered.

Natasha would rather worry about _surviving_ to get the truth out, first. They watched the movement below, the H.Y.D.R.A. agents staying closer to the trees as the sun rose. Two minutes, three— five—

Then a large chunk of them starting a definite move to the east. The highway was east, and so was the facility.

“That answers that question.” If any of them had had any doubt that someone high up in S.H.I.E.L.D. was leaking information—

“I need to get to a landline. I can get a secure connection directly to the Director,” Coulson said.

“Are they moving the car?” she asked Clint.

“No. And some of ‘em are huddling, like they’re planning something. Most of ‘em aren’t looking this way again yet.”

“Romanoff, take the rope, be prepared to go out the window. Barton, how are you on explosives?”

“One left.”

“On three, you blow up the knot of officers. I’ll blow up my car.” He drew his gun and checked it.

“How?”

Coulson smiled thinly. “They already planted a bomb. Distract them, and _move_.”

She nodded. 

“Sir.” Clint slowly, carefully, eased open the window.

“One,” Coulson murmured, kneeling beneath the sill. Clint crouched, arrow on the string. “Two. Three.”

Clint shot to his feet, aimed, and released, in one smooth move. He clicked his bow— Coulson fired, once, twice, three times— multiple explosions rocked the house. Natasha threw the rope out the window and climbed out, rappelling as fast as possible. Her exposed back crawled. She had to trust Coulson and Clint to cover her.

She reached the bottom, crouched in the meager cover of the overhang with her back to the house, and held the rope with one hand. Coulson was next, shimmying with a speed she hadn’t expected. She really should stop expecting that there was _anything_ Coulson couldn’t do. His suits were camouflage, just like the thin dresses she wore when she wanted to take a man apart.

He grabbed the rope when he was down, and she drew her other gun, watching, listening to the muffled shouts in German, and the sound of dry, winter woods burning. 

Then someone yelled “The house!” in German. Their luck was out. Clint, just climbing out the window, ignored the rope, slid down the roof, and jumped, landing in a heavy crouch with an arrow on the string. It went through the throat of the woman who had raised the alarm— she toppled, and the people next to her turned in their direction, but the others were still confused, because the fire was growing and she hadn’t specified _where_ in the house they should look.

They sprinted for the nearest woods, forty feet away. She and Coulson held their fire, on the bare chance that some of the H.Y.D.R.A. agents didn’t know what was happening. Clint’s quiet weapon killed the two others looking in their direction. Then someone opened fire— she dove for the ground, ten feet from the edge of the forest, rolled, and returned fire. Her aim was bad, moving as she was, but theirs was worse. She saw at least one H.Y.D.R.A. agent fall to Coulson’s fire, and she shot another. Then they reached the edge of the woods, and they were less exposed, but now they were surrounded by H.Y.D.R.A. agents.

The car was another fifty feet ahead. Speed and surprise was their best chance. She put her last throwing knife in the eye of the nearest agent, and grabbed his gun as she flipped over his body, avoiding a bullet. One small mercy— she didn’t see any dart guns. Every agent she saw was armed with things that killed more quickly. They’d learned not to take chances on Strike Team Delta, apparently. She would appreciate the compliment… later.

A blur of motion to her left— two men rolled over and over on the ground— Coulson staggered to his feet a moment later, his opponent unmoving, his nice trousers were stained with blood and mud. To his left, a whisper of movement in the trees— Clint, she realized, as she ducked a punch, used the momentum to flip herself, and grabbed the man’s neck between her legs, throwing him to the ground with a broken neck and moving on. Clint was _in_ the trees, moving with just as much ease, and little more sound, as on the ground. As she watched him for a split second, she finally understood what it meant to grow up as an acrobat. 

_You never stop surprising me_. She grabbed the next agent. He got a knife in her arm— she hissed, rolled them over, and slammed his head into the ground, into a tree root. There was a _crack_. He stopped moving.

She kept running. Twenty feet to the car. The quiet was unreal. The three of them were holding their fire, trying to obscure their real position, and H.Y.D.R.A. was firing, but most of them didn’t know what they were firing _at_. But they could still get lucky. A bullet creased the side of her neck— she put a hand up long enough to make sure it hadn’t opened up anything important, and dove behind a big dead oak, rolled, and kept running in its shadow. To her left, two huge men tackled Coulson to the ground— she changed course, knife in hand— before she got there, he somehow rolled out from under them both, and, _fast_ , propelled one of them into the nearest tree trunk, and took the legs of the other out from under him. A foot to the ribs, another foot to the groin, ensured they wouldn’t be getting up any time soon, and then he was running again, a bare three seconds spent. Her eyebrows went up. He looked her way. She saluted him with her knife. _Damn_.

Clint dropped out of the trees onto the roof of the car, shot their nearest pursuer, dove into the driver’s seat, and started hotwiring the thing. Coulson reached it next— not unscathed any more than she was. He hadn’t been punching, she realized, because his right arm was covered in blood.

The engine roared to life. She broke through a woody shrub that scratched at her legs, leapt, got a leg on the edge of the passenger side window, vaulted to the roof, and landed facing backwards on her stomach, the cold roof painful against her bare thighs. She slid backwards until her feet hit the hood, minimizing her profile. No point in being quiet now— Clint shot forward, she rocked towards the trunk, stabilized herself, and opened up.

She wasn’t Clint, but she was still better than H.Y.D.R.A. By the time her guns both clicked empty, she’d killed every agent within sixty feet. They could outrun anyone else on foot. Now they just had to worry about—

Coulson’s right hand appeared out the window, holding a couple of magazines. She lunged and grabbed them fast-- holding his injured arm up like that had to hurt. She reloaded, but held her fire, waiting for an actual threat to appear.

When it did, it almost brained her. Only Clint’s yell of “NAT!” made her look over her shoulder, barely in time to throw herself sideways as a heavy dead limb scraped over the roof. The momentum send her sliding off— she scrambled for purchase on the smooth roof— she slid half off, got a hand on the window sill, and turned the momentum into a swing around a point, tucking her legs up so they didn’t slam into the ground. When her feet were pointed straight up again, she threw herself backwards, and thumped back down on the roof.

“That was impressive!” Coulson shouted.

“Thanks, I’ll be here all week!”

They bounced onto a path barely wide enough— _not_ wide enough— for the car. Besides the sounds of Clint doing sixty through the woods, it was ominously quiet. _If I were H.Y.D.R.A., what would I do next?_ Their resources _should_ be limited here, as opposed to Frankfurt, but if Agent Robinson had been helping them, they could have gotten nearly anything into the country. As evidenced by the facility she and Clint had captured the previous day.

The car lurched as Clint bounced through a creek with a few inches of water in it. The path dumped them onto a power line right-of-way, and she had vivid memories of Ontario. Clint jerked the wheel right and accelerated— this was the long way, through the woods, but the other way would go back towards the house. They were heading vaguely towards what passed for a major road in this county. If they got enough of a lead, they could reach town, go to ground, blend in like only half-naked people covered in blood could, and find Coulson a landline. If they went far enough, they were going to run into the agents Coulson had decoyed away, but they were going north, not east--

The _whump-whump-whump_ destroyed _that_ idea. “Clint! Coulson!” She flipped onto her back and scanned the sky until she found it, coming in low, black and unmarked. That was no news crew.

And Clint was out of explosive arrowheads. An acid arrowhead would take too long— he might be able to take out the pilots, but— “Pass me an arrow!” she called.

“What?”

“A plain arrow! Just do it!”

Coulson’s arm appeared above the roof. She snatched the arrow from his hand and held the shaft in her mouth as she pulled off her left Widow’s Bite. She tightened the strap all the way down, fastening it around the shaft just below the head, then forced the switch to the left so the electrodes would stay live without continuous pressure.

“Clint!” The helicopter dove for them, people leaning out each side with machine guns— She thrust the arrow down, tail first— “Be _careful!_ ”

They fishtailed around a curve. She saw the road straight ahead. He drove straight for the trees, then stopped hard. The momentum threw her forward— she slid, then rolled and rolled again, bleeding off speed before she fell off the front bumper, landing hard on the ground.

She groaned. She heard the door open. She rolled onto her back and saw Clint, legs braced wide against the ground, arrow pointed straight up— The helicopter swooped, coming straight for them—

He fired.

The arrow went in the open door and hit the control panel. She saw the faint flash of blue, then a small explosion, then smoke rising from the controls. The helicopter fell—

Straight towards them.

She staggered to her feet and glanced back only to make sure Coulson was moving, too. Then she _ran_. She stayed at the edge of the woods, where the ground was clearer— She stumbled— Coulson caught up to her, Clint not far behind— 

The helicopter hit the car.

She tackled Coulson into the woods as the shock wave reached them. He cried out as his injured arm hit the ground. She rolled off of him— no time for apology— were there any survivors from the wreck? All three of them stumbled to standing, and watched. No one moved. Smoke rose from the twisted metal of the car and the helicopter.

That wasn’t the only place smoke was coming from.

“Hey!” Clint saw it at the same time. Behind the car, in the direction they’d come, a large black plume was rising towards the sky— probably because they’d set off several explosions to cover their exit.

Coulson was looking in the other direction. “That’s a school.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and saw several buildings clustered behind wide fields. “Let’s hope no one’s there.” It was still early— what time did American children start their training? Not five in the morning like in the Red Room.

“That’s a _school_ ,” Coulson repeated. “With a landline.” He was already moving in that direction.

“We’ll hold them!” Clint called after him. “Go!”

She and Clint looked at each other. “They’re gonna be running from the fire.” Damn it, now she was _talking_ like Clint.

Clint nodded. Then his eyes narrowed, and he stared past her, into the woods. “They’re comin’ up the other road.”

She turned, but couldn’t see anything. She didn’t ask if he was sure. They could split up on the chance that H.Y.D.R.A. would come up the right-of-way as well— but neither of them would have much chance of stopping H.Y.D.R.A. alone on the road.

They jogged through the woods. She glanced over her shoulder, but Coulson was out of sight. They reached the road just in time to see unmarked black cars coming up fast from the left, opening fire on a school bus trundling up the road.

“I don’t fucking think so,” Clint grunted, and opened fire on the cars. The school bus skidded to a stop, tires deflated. She heard screaming kids, and silently echoed Clint’s anger.

“Cover me!” She sprinted into the road. The first driver instinctively braked. Before she had time to accelerate again, Nat charged forward and leapt onto the hood. The driver swerved, trying to shake her off, but she was still going too fast, and the car rocked on two wheels. Nat threw herself backwards and shot out the bottom tire. The car tipped, rolled on its side, rolled again, and stopped, suspended on its side. The driver was slumped over on the wheel, neck snapped. Nat shot the first gunman who showed his head through the window that was now on the top of the car. There was another corpse in the car with an arrow through her chest. The fourth person was lying unconscious or dead in a pool of blood.

And now Nat had cover. “Get the kids out!” she shouted over her shoulder. She grabbed the rifle from the gunman she’d shot. The car rocked as H.Y.D.R.A. riddled its undercarriage with bullets, apparently indifferent to the fate of any of their people inside. The car wasn’t blocking the whole road— another car skidded to a stop, at an angle to fire on her— she shot the driver. His foot came off the brake as he died, and the car crept into motion again. One of the agents inside leaned over to get control of the wheel, and she shot him, too. That left two in the backseat— an arrow passed through one of them and stopped in the other. She glanced over her shoulder to see children scrambling out of the back of the bus, and Clint running up behind her.

“I’m almost out of arrows.”

She handed him the rifle. He was better with it than she was. The smoke was getting thicker. “Any movement on the right-of-way?”

“No.” He fired over the motionless car, and raked one of the two remaining cars. “The trees—!”

He shoved her to the side. The bullet passed over her shoulder— he grunted in pain— she fired past him, one, two, and three H.Y.D.R.A. agents fell out of the trees. It had taken a chunk out of his scalp, which was bleeding freely. She didn’t think it was too bad. She hoped.

“How long d’you think Coulson needs?” His voice was ragged.

What he really meant was, _How long do we need to survive?_ Even if Coulson got through to Fury— even Fury couldn’t conjure help out of nowhere. H.Y.D.R.A.’s supply of agents seemed endless. But that school was just up the road, and H.Y.D.R.A. had already demonstrated their willingness to kill kids.

“Longer.” She emptied her lefthand gun and grabbed a fresh pistol through the broken windshield of the car they were sheltering behind.

“There’s a helicopter—“ Clint’s voice was tight.

She listened, and heard it coming in from the east. She turned and watched the sky, searching. She fumbled for her last Widow’s Bite. The kids had all reached the shelter of the woods, but the bus was too far away to give them any cover. 

There was a remarkable distance between “doomed” and “dead,” and she was prepared to prove it on the dead bodies of H.Y.D.R.A. agents. “We need to get the gas tank open.” She pulled off her bracelet and handed it to him—

“Wait.” His fingers closed over hers, pushing it back at her. “That’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. chopper.”

“That doesn’t mean _much_ —“ Had Robinson decided H.Y.D.R.A. needed reinforcements?

“I know. But I recognize—“

The helicopter dove _over_ them and raked the H.Y.D.R.A. cars with gunfire. Ropes tumbled to the ground, and six black-clad figures rappelled down quickly as the helicopter’s gunner kept H.Y.D.R.A.’s head down. One of their heads.

The helicopter pulled up sharply and banked towards the other road. At the same time, Natasha heard the sound of cars behind her, and peeked over the edge of the car to see four more H.Y.D.R.A. cars come to a screeching halt. _Fucking_ hell. This had to be everyone from the house, didn’t it? The smoke was getting thicker, and closer— 

“You’re like a bad penny,” she told Agent Carter as she jogged up beside them, her people fading into covering positions in the woods. This could be a front to lull them into a false sense of security.

“If by a bad penny you mean I keep turning up in time to save your ass, then yeah.” Carter’s gaze flicked over both of them, paused on Clint’s— everything, lingered on Natasha’s bare legs— and then she jerked her head up again, face flushed.

“What are you doing here?” Clint demanded, hand tight on his pistol.

Carter smiled, and showed all her teeth. “One of the comm techs has a bad habit of surfing CNN while he’s working, did you know? When Agent Coulson’s warning came through on the general channel— he was watching a live stream of a press conference in D.C. Given by General Ross.”

Natasha felt a slow smile stretch across her face in response.

“Fury pulled up the satellites and sent us to figure out what the fuck is going on out here. There’s more coming, we scrambled from New Orleans. So. What the fuck is going on out here? Why did Coulson broadcast in the clear, why did he lie about Ross, and why didn’t he call for help? And how is H.Y.D.R.A.--”

“For the reason you think,” Clint said tightly. “We can’t tell you. Add it up.”

Carter’s eyes narrowed. “ _That_ sounds fun.”

“Can we discuss your masochistic idea of fun later?” Natasha shot over the car at the first of the approaching cars.

Carter jerked her head towards the east. “More coming from that way. The helicopter went to deal with them.”

“They’re gonna try to retake the facility,” Clint said.

“As soon as Fury realized something was up, he called Ruiz. They’ve pulled back inside. H.Y.D.R.A. will have to spend a lot of lives to get them out of there.”

“Then we gotta hold these roads.” Clint tapped his bow and shot an arrow over the edge of the car. Fire was coming in from their backup up the road, now.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I brought you a belated Christmas present.” She unzipped a pocket on her trousers and pulled out four mini-grenades.

Natasha took two, ran a thumb over them, and practically purred.

Carter eyed her. “… Romanoff, whatever kink you have, I don’t want to _know_.”

Natasha ignored her. Grenades were more important.

Clint popped up over the edge of the car and lobbed the first mini-grenade. It curved gently, landed in the nearest intact car, and promptly blew up. Natasha pocketed one and threw the other. Between the grenades and the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in trees, they took out four of the six cars. The other two swerved, and headed fast back up the road.

“We’ll hold here,” Carter ordered. She unzipped her uniform top and handed it to Clint. He couldn’t zip it up, but he looked glad to have its warmth.

His eyes narrowed. “But look at the way that front one is riding low. There’s something heavy in there.”

“People?”

“No. One driver and one passenger.”

The three of them looked at each other. “That one.” Carter pointed to a car that had all its tires intact. They broke around the cover of the sideways car and sprinted to the car. Clint yanked open the doors and hauled the bodies out. Carter turned her back, watching—

Nat tackled her to the ground. The bullet passed her injured shoulder by a hair’s breadth. Carter grunted as they landed. Natasha shot back— the bullet had come from an injured agent in one of the damaged cars. Her second bullet went right between his eyes.

Natasha rolled off of Carter. After a moment, she extended a hand to help her up. Carter was touching her shoulder, frowning. Only when Natasha glanced at her fingers did she see that Carter’s black tank top was concealing blood.

“How bad?” Nat asked.

Carter gave her a wry smile. “I’ve had worse.” She touched the scar on the other side of her neck, leaving bloody fingerprints. With her other hand, she took Natasha’s, and let Nat pull her to her feet. “So, uh… thanks.”

“Mmm.”

“C’mon!” Clint yelled, and shoved the last body on the street. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Nat glanced at the roof, then decided not to replicate her earlier feat. She took the front passenger’s seat, Carter took the backseat. Clint went from zero to airborne in two seconds, and they rocketed after the two cars.

As soon as they got close, the roof of the rear car retracted— _really?_ — and a large gun rose and swerved to target them. “Uh!” Carter said.

Natasha fished out her remaining mini-grenade, leaned out the window, steadied herself, pulled the pin, and tossed it.

It was a throw worthy of Clint. The back of the car erupted with fire. It swerved wildly around the road, turned broadside, stopped… and turned, accelerating at them, a giant flaming box going fifty miles an hour.

“You guys ever played chicken?” Clint shouted.

“You’re insane, Barton!” Carter shouted back.

Natasha didn’t know what ‘chicken’ was, but she got the idea when Clint _accelerated_ , going straight for the other car.

“Barton, chicken only works if the other person _doesn’t want to get hurt_!” Carter shouted.

“I know what I’m doing!”

Natasha tried to relax. Her craven animal instincts wanted to tense up against the impact. They closed—

At what should have been _past_ the last possible moment, Clint yanked the wheel over hard. They rocked on two wheels as the death-car passed them, but he’d turned right, and the greater weight on the left side of the car brought them down again. Natasha looked behind them as the flaming car skidded to a stop, tried to turn, and then exploded.

“You’re going to burn the whole damn county down!” Carter called. They were heading towards the smoke, which was getting thicker.

Clint shook his head. “It’s turning white, fire department’s there!”

“Well, _that’s_ a relief.”

The car ahead turned hard right. Clint hauled the wheel around to follow. “Get the wheels!”

She leaned out the window, braced her arm against the edge, and shot. Her shots bounced off the frame of the car. It was armored, and the tires were recessed. She emptied her gun, but couldn’t get a hit. Carter didn’t have any better luck.

Clint braked hard. “Switch places!” He scrambled across. She got out and jumped across the hood, taking the wheel. She floored the pedal and they shot off again.

It was hard for her to stay on their tail. They made a hard left— she swerved after them— and then Clint got a hit in their rear tire. They fishtailed and slowed. He took out their other tire. They accelerated, limping along on two flat tires.

“Ram them!” Carter shouted.

“That’s a _terrible_ idea, they’re carrying the weight in their trunk!” Clint said.

“Then get in front of them and _then_ ram them.”

It wasn’t difficult. The other car couldn’t go very fast. Natasha floored it, and for a moment, understood why Clint drove like this. She passed the other car— the window was down, but Clint and Carter raked them with gunfire to keep them from firing—she turned, hard, and braced herself as the other car slammed head-on into them.

 _This was still a terrible idea_ , she thought hazily.

Whine later. The doors of the other car popped open. Carter was a few seconds ahead, as Clint and Natasha had to fight their way past the airbags, but then they'd all baled out with their weapons drawn.

“ _On the ground_ ,” Clint snarled, at the two men who emerged.

They looked at each other, then slowly knelt, hands up.

“Get their weapons.” Clint nodded to Carter. He and Natasha covered the two men. Carter lowered her gun—

— and dove for the two men, one hand shoved deep in each of their mouths. She screamed as they bit down, hard, thrashing.

Nat holstered her gun and ran forward. She brought her left hand up— to Carter, “Sorry—“ and electrocuted the first man with just enough juice to stun him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Carter hissed, but her eyes stayed open. 

Nat rolled and got her hand in the other man’s mouth, grabbed the cyanide pill, and pulled it out— intact. Then she dropped it on the ground in case the outer coating had dissolved. Carter pulled the pill out of the other man’s mouth, and picked both up with gloves from her pocket.

Carter tied them up. “The fuck was that? You _electrocuted_ me.” She was still panting.

“I said I was sorry.” Natasha held up her arm so the bracelet was visible. “It’s a Widow’s Bite.”

“Of course it is,” Carter grumbled--

The second man stumbled up and made a break for it. Natasha snarled and lunged for him, but missed her footing and went down. In the second it took her to recover, he opened up a lead, heading for the edge of the same graveyard she and Clint had passed the night before. She sprinted after him-- the smart thing to do would be let Clint shoot him, but she would not let H.Y.D.R.A. surprise her again--

She dove forward wildly and tackled him. The impact took them both down. They rolled over and over-- her leg slammed twice, painfully, into cold, unyielding metal-- she got her hand around his neck, wrenched them around, and slammed his head into the same sign she'd just run into. He went limp. She dragged him by the armpits back to the car. Carter was just finishing tying up the first man.

“Hey!” Clint had gotten the trunk open.

Natasha looked at Carter. She looped several lengths of rope around the second man's wrists, tied it off, and reached for his ankles. “I'm good.”

So Natasha walked over to Clint, and looked over his shoulder. In the trunk was another box of vials, a box of hard drives, and a smaller box of— “Is that _gold_?”

“Looks like it.”

They stared at each other blankly, not sure what to do now. The smoke was turning to steam in the distance, and she didn’t hear any gunshots. “Where _are_ we?” She’d gotten turned around in all the high-speed car chases of the last twenty-four hours.

Clint looked around. They were just opposite a small cemetery, and there was an arch across the entrance: BUDAPEST. “Hungary. Apparently.”

 _What?_ But no, he was right, because the sign she'd rolled onto and then used as a weapon had said the same thing. She was probably going to have bruises in the shape of those raised letters.

A plane zoomed overhead. They both ducked. It turned mid-air with precision only a quinjet could manage, and settled onto the road. The ramp lowered, and Coulson walked down it holding a rifle. He’d managed to find another shirt and jacket, because that was a priority, apparently.

“I saw from the air. Well done.” He held out a stack of cloth. Nat grabbed the top half, realized it was a pair of sweatpants in _her size_ , and decided to refrain from any other comments about his priorities.

Clint struggled into the other pair of pants, and hissed. “Can I kiss you, sir?”

“No.”

“What’s the situation?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. has H.Y.D.R.A. retreating, nearly contained. The agents at the facility repulsed the attack. And the fire department says the fire is under control.”

“Do you _trust_ the agents in charge?” Clint murmured. He didn’t glance over his shoulder, but she knew why he was modulating his voice.

“Yes,” Coulson said simply. “Sitwell and Woo are in charge.”

“What now?” she asked.

“How much does Fury know?” Clint asked at the same time.

“Everything.” Coulson took a set of keys out of his pocket. “We need twenty-four hours to see how far Robinson’s influence goes. The two of you need to go to ground. He’s been gunning for you, specifically— especially you, Natasha. All it takes is one lucky H.Y.D.R.A. agent. There’s a safe house in northwestern Atlanta— the address is on the keychain. No one will find you there.”

Natasha took the keys hesitantly. “The safe house is on your list?”

“It’s on Director Fury’s list.”

She was satisfied. “And Robinson?”

Coulson smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I’ll pick you up in twenty-four hours.”

She and Clint looked at each other. She searched the trees, waiting for the next attack. It _couldn’t_ be over. Could it?

“The rest of our gear is back in the house,” Clint said. “If there's anything left.”

“I know. We’ll pick it up.” Coulson smiled again, a less threatening expression. “You’ve done extraordinarily well. It’s not often I see something like this.”

Clint gave him a shit-eating grin. “Maybe you better keep this one classified, sir, wouldn’t want the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. getting an inferiority complex.”

“Agent Barton, go away before something else blows up.”

“Yes, sir.” Now Clint did glance over his shoulder.

“Agent Carter will help me get that stuff back to base. You're officially done.”

“Uh.” She looked at the car, its front completely crumpled by the impact with a heavier, armored vehicle. “We broke it. We broke… a lot of them.”

Coulson nodded at her hand. “The other key goes to a car. We’ll drop you on the way. I’d take you all the way in, but I don’t want anyone else knowing where you are.”

So they climbed the ramp and slumped against the inside wall while Coulson, Carter, and the soldiers on the plane loaded the boxes and the two bound H.Y.D.R.A. agents. After a few minutes, Clint collapsed his bow, and stared at his empty quiver mournfully.

“If I’d known we were going to fight a small war, I would have brought more weapons,” she muttered in agreement.

“One way to fix that.” Clint stood with difficulty, and opened the locker in the back of the plane. He tossed her a set of knives and two loaded guns, then armed himself. “Hey. _Hey_.” He rummaged in the back, and pulled out two bundles. He tossed one to her. She shook it out: a sweatshirt.

She turned her back and switched out Coulson’s jacket for the sweatshirt. What she really wanted was _underwear_ : her breasts ached from running, jumping, and diving without a bra on, and her crotch was half-frozen. But she’d settle for this.

They took off, then put down a short distance away. Carter looked at them, confused, when the ramp lowered and Natasha and Clint climbed down. She turned to Coulson, but whatever she asked was lost in the sound of the engines.

They found the car, got on the road, and headed for the highway. Natasha kept a gun in each hand, watching the trees, the road, the sky, waiting for the next attack. Clint shifted in the driver’s seat and hissed.

“What is it?”

“Battle wounds.”

The ride into Atlanta seemed surreal. She couldn’t believe she wasn’t back there, fighting against yet more overwhelming odds. But they reached the bland apartment building an hour later, with no further sign of attack. They circled it and parked a few blocks away; they should keep their transport out of sight in case H.Y.D.R.A. came after them again.

The apartment was in the basement. It had been extensively retrofitted. The key opened the front door, revealing a tiny antechamber and a considerably stronger door. It had been programmed to require both their thumbprints to open. Finally the second door slid open, and they stepped inside. The door slid shut behind them with a reassuring _thud_.

There were two rooms and a bathroom. She took the bedroom and searched it, looking for the catch. Clint came up similarly blank in the living room. She opened the weapons cabinet and satisfied herself that there were plenty of guns, lots of ammunition, even grenades if they needed them. She and Clint stood in the middle of the living room and looked at each other. He looked like he was feeling the aftereffects as badly as she was. When the adrenaline wore off, reality was always harsh.

“Take the shower.” She checked under the sink, looking for something she couldn’t name.

“You sure?” 

“I…” she gestured vaguely. “I can’t.”

Clint nodded. He understood. He disappeared into the bathroom. She slumped against a wall and checked her injuries. Her arm throbbed. Her shoulder ached. Her leg ached. She could already see the bruises forming-- BUDAPEST in mirror image. The gash on her neck had clotted, but still stung. The routine helped calm her down. The more intense and prolonged the violence, the harder it was to come back from. She shoved the subroutine marked “kill lots of people” into the back of her head again, where it would wait until next time. She did a few gentle, small stretches, and began to feel like she was in control again.

Clint came out of the bathroom looking a little more human. She gestured to the towel around his waist. “That your new look?”

He gave her an unimpressed stare. He also gave her a hand to help her off the floor.

The hot water stung in all her wounds, but it was so much better than cold water in a freezing outhouse. She hoped, she really hoped, that no one was going to kick the door in and start shooting, because she was more than willing to use grenades to protect her rest. Cleaning out all her cuts hurt like hell, but she knew it would hurt worse if she didn’t do it. Clint had left a tube of antibiotic ointment on the counter; the humidity of the tiny bathroom was making it melt, so she wandered out through the tiny bedroom into the tiny living room. Clint was sprawled on the couch, making halfhearted attempts to apply ointment to the small of his back. There was a bottle of painkillers and a glass of water beside him. She availed herself of both, methodically doctored all her wounds from her face down to her toes, then wrapped the towel more firmly around her and stood over him. She took the tube from his fingers, and gently smoothed the goop over the long scratches on his back. He shifted; the towel, pinned under him, pulled down. She glanced down, and realized why he’d been sitting so awkwardly in the car. “Christ, Clint, you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”

His back stiffened under her fingers. 

She took her hand off of him. “What?”

“Nothing. You can keep going. Please.”

So she finished rubbing the stuff in, then put it away and rinsed off her hands. She came back to the couch.

He turned his face away from the cushions. “Someone said that to me… once.” His voice was light, like he was talking about the weather, and completely unconvincing.

She looked down at him for a minute. Then she sat on the floor. She reached up and ran her hand very lightly over his hair, once, twice, again. She felt more than heard his sigh. “Thanks.”

She should move— get up, get bandages, get food, _something_. Or go put her clothes back on— but she’d bled on them. There was a bed in the other room, at least, if she was going to sleep. But she didn’t want to move. She pillowed her head on her arms on the edge of the couch, and listened to Clint breath.

“What is it?” Clint asked after a few minutes.

Was she so out of it that she was transparent now? “I’m a spy, not... a soldier.”

“Yeah, this was a bit much.”

Slowly, she started to believe that it really was over, and the world began to feel a bit more real. Something buzzed in the cabinet. She staggered to her feet, and dug until she found the phone. It was a text: A passphrase that only the two of them and Coulson knew, plus the message, _On my way._

A few minutes later, someone knocked on the door: four times, two times, three times, four times. She grabbed the nearest gun and took the safety off. Clint sat up and pulled a gun from under the cushions. They waited.

“I don't have access,” Coulson called. “You have to let me in.”

She appreciated the thoughtfulness and paranoia behind apparently locking every other person on the planet out of the safehouse. She opened the door. It was Coulson, alone. She and Clint safetied their weapons.

He wasn’t empty-handed. He had a briefcase in one hand, a large paper bag in the other, and a duffel bag over his shoulder. He put everything down— the bag smelled strongly of food— opened the duffel bag, and piled clothes on the table. He tossed something soft in her direction— it turned out to be jeans, a T-shirt, and underwear. He tossed the other pile to Clint.

She stepped into the other room to dress. She’d gotten used to the fact that her closest colleagues knew what size garments she wore. When she came back, Clint had also dressed, and was pulling boxes and bags out of the large paper bag. 

“Mind if I join you?” Coulson put aside the briefcase.

They both gave him disbelieving looks. “You’re probably cool enough for the cool spy club.” Clint sat down— gingerly— and pushed Coulson’s chair out with his foot.

She was starving. After the third cheeseburger, she slowed down, and investigated the rest of the food. “What happened at the site?” She peeled an orange.

Coulson dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “We took the survivors into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. Forensics is there now. The two you captured were known to us, by the way. Regional heads from eastern Europe. Apparently H.Y.D.R.A. scrambled quite a few people when Robinson offered up a more concrete possibility of taking you down.” He smiled at them. “And S.H.I.E.L.D. is picking up the tab for the civilian casualties.”

“Civilian casualties?” Clint asked.

“Some property damage, two hospitalized from smoke inhalation, and one shot. Remarkably, no deaths. The two of you nearly single-handedly took out an entire H.Y.D.R.A. lab, plus a good chunk of their eastern European division,” he continued. “Well done.”

“We had help,” she reminded him.

He looked modest.

“Yeah. Thanks for saving our asses, Coulson.” Clint reached for a napkin, shifted the wrong way, and groaned. “Speaking of, I’m making a new condition for working with S.H.I.E.L.D. No more fighting with my junk hanging in the wind, ever.”

“Why do men call their genitals that? It seems degrading.” She popped an orange segment in her mouth.

“What do you call yours?”

Coulson looked traumatized. “You know, sometimes people ask me what it’s like working with such famous and competent spies?”

“Sir, I slid down a roof on my bare ass, I don’t care what constitutes a work-appropriate conversation right now.”

Coulson let it drop. “Do either of you need medical--”

“No,” they said together.

They finished eating in silence; Coulson seemed preoccupied. He tucked all the trash into one bag. “I need to get back, but I want to do a quick debrief first—“

“I’ve already been debriefed once today, that was enough,” Clint said.

“I promise you can keep your clothes on. Tell me what happened.”

They looked at each other. Clint picked up another cheeseburger, so she started at the beginning, telling Coulson why they’d taken on the entire lab themselves.

When she reached the part about ‘the only daughter of Johann Schmidt,’ Coulson ‘tch’ed and shook his head. “Lamarckian inheritance. Will they ever learn?”

“Lawhatian what?”

“Lamarckian inheritance. It’s a discredited theory that says a child’s traits are determined by the entirety of the parents’ traits, not just the genetic portion.”

Clint frowned. “That doesn’t happen?”

“No. Children don’t inherit the acquired characteristics of their parents.”

Something about Coulson’s voice— Clint’s expression— she opened her mouth to plunge in, but Coulson kept going.

“For instance, if Captain America had ever had children—“ he sounded wistful— “they would have been average. Well. Not _average_ , because they would have been Captain America’s children. But not—“

“Six foot tall hunks of burning man-flesh.” Clint yawned and stretched.

Coulson frowned. “Stop sexualizing this.”

Clint gave him an unimpressed look. “You _have his underwear_.”

“I don’t have _his_ underwear—“

“Who’s Johann Schmidt?” She wanted to needle Coulson, but she wanted to sleep more.

“The Red Skull. He founded H.Y.D.R.A. Captain America spent most of his career closing down his bases, then died taking him down.”

Natasha frowned. “That would have been in World War Two.”

“Yes.”

She did some rapid math. “She didn’t look nearly seventy. And-- she _wasn't normal_.”

There was a pause. “We’ll do a full analysis of her body.”

She was pleasantly surprised when they finished without anything blowing up or demanding their attention. “Thank you,” Coulson said. “Stay here. I’ll be back to pick you up. Don’t go out— there’s food in the cabinets. Call if you need anything.” He stood, and grabbed his briefcase.

“Coulson,” Clint said.

Coulson turned back. “Yes?”

“Be careful.”

Coulson nodded, and left.

She smothered a yawn. “You going to sleep?” Nothing now stood between her and the bed, and if something appeared, she would _gun it down_.

Clint shook his head. “Not quite… yet.”

She kicked herself for that stupid comment about his ass, but whatever demons he had to wrestle with, he wanted to do it alone. She went to bed and fell asleep immediately, dozing through a series of strange, disjointed dreams. She woke halfway when the other side of the mattress sank, and then settled into a deeper sleep.

She woke up gasping from a dream of fingers slipping through her hand.

She opened her eyes immediately, but this nightmare didn't dissipate, because it was close enough to something that had really happened. Clint was watching her from the other side of the bed. “You would have saved her.” She didn't care how shaky her voice was.

Clint made a face. “I would have kept her from jumping.”

Natasha fell back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

“You know that...”

When he didn't continue, she looked over at him.

He sighed. “All this, you-- second-guessing yourself, you can't let it go. You wanna know you did right by her. I'm guessing that's something the Red Room never taught you.”

“No,” she whispered.

“That's... something, isn't it?”

She appreciated his attempt. “For me. But not for her.” She shook her head. “I wish I could kill them.”

Clint made a noise of agreement, whether for her, or extrapolating her situation to his, she didn't know.

But she was too physically exhausted to let this keep her up for long. She fell asleep, and woke again with no idea how much time had passed. Clint was gone, the other side of the bed was cold— and there were strange noises coming from the living room. She grabbed her gun and padded silently to the door, ready to meet HYDRA agents.

But it was just Clint, upside down on the couch, a book in his hand. At first she thought he was crying, then she realized he was choking back laughter. She lowered her gun and crossed the room. “What is it?”

He shook his head, and gestured with the book. She took it out of his hand, and started reading where his thumb had been. “‘His pulsating man-rod inched closer to her throbbing love mound’— oh my God, you’re reading porn.”

“Is that what that is?” he gasped, hardly able to breathe. “I thought it was a mining saga gone terribly wrong.”

She snorted, and looked down at him— eyes hidden behind his arm, body shaking with open, honest laughter— with more fondness than she would have permitted herself if anyone were looking, including him. “You’re reading _bad_ porn. Oh God, if it’s _pulsating_ , you’re doing it wrong. Where did you get this?”

“Closet.”

She blinked. “I thought this was Director Fury’s safe house.”

They looked at each other.

“— let’s never speak of this again.”

“Agreed.” Clint let the book fall to the couch. “Not like I ever missed it, but this just reminds me what I'm _not missing_.”

It was only surprising that he came out and said it, but he must have misinterpreted her expression, because his face started to close down. She’d seen enough upsetting things that day; Clint going from happy and laughing to withdrawn and taciturn was-- not acceptable. “Not much,” she agreed. She picked up the book again. “I bet I can read more of this with a straight face than you can.”

“Not a chance, Romanoff.”

She sat down on the couch and swung her legs over the back to mirror his position. “‘His pulsating man-rod inched closer to her throbbing love mound as he growled with desire like a tiger fighting off hyenas…’”

*

They strode onto the bridge side-by-side, armed and in uniform. Robinson turned. If he was surprised to see them— Coulson had embargoed the reports coming out that mentioned the two of them, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that _someone_ would have said something if Strike Team Delta had died— he didn’t show it. “Agent Barton. Agent Romanoff,” he greeted them.

They reached him. Clint punched him with a vicious left hook that took him to the ground. _I hope you enjoyed that_. She followed Robinson down and pinned him before he could recover. Across the bridge, she heard gasps and weapons being unsafetied, but they were counting on people being reluctant to attack them unless they were actively hurting Robinson.

She slid her hand into his suit jacket and grabbed his cell phone. He grabbed back for it, but she tossed it away before he could reach.

Coulson stepped onto the bridge and caught it. “Evidence was kind enough to release the phones we took off the H.Y.D.R.A. agents,” he commented, as if he were discussing the weather. He held up a plastic bag. “Some were wired with explosives, a self-destruct, but the owners had no chance to trigger them. There was one number in particular that went through an extraordinary series of relays and bounces to hide its true identity. We started wondering just who would have that kind of access. It took us twenty-four hours to crack the whole trail.” He thumbed through Robinson’s phone with one hand, seemingly distracted, but she knew if Robinson or anyone else made a move, he would react faster than the eye could follow. “Ah, here we go.” He pressed a button.

The bag began to vibrate.

“No, this isn't true, you set me up,” Robinson snarled. He lunged up, grabbed her hair, and dragged her down, smashing her face into the metal walkway.

 _Fuck—!_ She grabbed his legs and pulled. He kicked her in the ribs and feinted towards Clint, then dodged him, sprinting for the end of the walkway. She and Clint drew and leveled at him— he had to get past Coulson—

Coulson threw his hand out, catching Robinson in the chest and stopping him in place. Robinson grabbed his gun—

— and froze, as the barrel of a gun kissed his jaw.

Slowly, he looked out of the corner of his eye. Fury stepped into the center of the walkway, gun hand completely steady. “Lucas.”

Robinson swallowed.

She kept her gun out. They hadn't discussed how this part would go.

Fury stroked the trigger. “You killed my people.”

Robinson swallowed again. “Sir.”

“I once made Agent Romanoff a promise, about the consequences if she did that.” He didn’t raise his voice or turn in her direction. “Agent Romanoff, would you please enlighten us?”

She pitched her voice to carry, but kept her tone conversational. “‘If you hurt or kill another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, I’ll hunt you down myself.’”

Coulson’s hand was still in the center of Robinson’s chest. Would he hold Robinson still, for Fury to shoot him?

“Your punishment should be death.” Fury lowered his gun fractionally. A squad of S.H.I.E.L.D. guards, who had slipped on the bridge while everyone was distracted, approached. “But you’re much more useful to us alive.”

He kept his gun out while the soldiers cuffed Robinson. Coulson fell into step behind them, and she and Clint followed Coulson. No more prisoner escapes. They would see him safely into his cell— his new home for a long, _long_ time. And maybe, if they ever made him scream, she would ask Fury to let her watch.

*

_Once, my unlacerated ass._

The days after Robinson’s fall were confused; Coulson, and others, took on more responsibility in the aftermath. Security protocols changed, then changed again. It was easy to steal someone else’s logon and pull Clint’s file.

She’d never done it before. Asking questions was one thing, but snooping was another. She’d respected his privacy and his right to hide whatever he wanted to hide, just as he’d done the same for her. He would hate her if he knew what she was doing.

She wasn’t doing it for him.

She started at the beginning. Born in Des Moines to Mary Barton, née Maloney, and Francis Barton. One older brother— she wasn’t surprised that this was Barnabas. Barney.

Mary Barton had been a librarian until shortly after her marriage. Her file was short: background information, birth certificate, high school and college diplomas, marriage certificate, two emergency room records, obituary, and death certificate. One E.R. visit had been for a broken foot, the other for internal bleeding.

Francis Barton: a successful entrepreneur with several arrests. There were many laudatory news clippings in his file. He’d been an educated and popular man, well-liked in his city, who’d parlayed an engineering degree into a very successful consulting business. In the news clippings, he was attractive, clean-shaven, and well-dressed. His hair was longer, the eyes were different, and the jawline was different, but he looked remarkably like Clint. In the arrest photos, when he was scowling, scruffy and unshaved, his chin hidden by a few days of stubble, Francis Barton was a dead ringer for Clinton Francis Barton.

There were records of three arrests, one after the birth of Barney, one when Clint would have been two, and one when he would have been four. The first arrest had been after a bar brawl. The second, after Barnabas had called the police. Mary had come down to the station the next morning, the report read, and explained that it had all been a misunderstanding, she’d tripped and fallen, Barney had been having nightmares and didn’t know what was going on, he’d gotten scared when he’d seen her bleeding and overreacted. The third arrest had been after a neighbor had reported a “domestic dispute.” One of Francis’s colleagues had posted bail for him, and he’d been out the next day. The charges had been quietly dropped.

She went back to Clint’s file, looking for the section she wanted, but she couldn't help noticing-- didn't _try_ to help noticing-- the other sections, in passing. In 1998 there'd been a warrant out for his arrest, for murder two, quietly dropped in 2002. She pulled up the attached police reports and read the details, and her eyes narrowed-- a sentiment that had apparently been echoed by whichever agent had compiled the file. But that wasn't what she was here for.

She scrolled until she saw “Iowa Department of Human Services.” She slowed down and looked for names. Between five and eleven, Clint had had seven homes— two group homes, the rest private. With S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database crawlers, finding the foster parents was child’s play, even the one who had entered witness protection. Two were dead— natural causes, she checked. One had joined the military. One had moved to San Diego. Four— two couples— had adopted and stopped fostering. One of those couples had later been convicted of child abuse.

None of them were foster parents any more. None of them had fostered more recently than five years ago. She closed the file, and erased all traces of her presence.

*

They were pulled for a routine mission four days later. Coulson was waiting in the briefing room. He looked up, smiled at her, and then furrowed his eyebrows at the cup she placed in front of him. “What’s this?”

“Coffee.”

“Thank you for that incisive analysis.”

“Single source from Java. Organic shade-grown light roast. One sugar, two creams.” It was his favorite kind, and far better than what was available in the mess. She was pleased when he looked taken aback. She had known something that he hadn’t expected her to know. He’d _underestimated_ her.

“Why?”

“Because you’re my favorite handler.” She gave him a bright smile.

He returned her a deeply suspicious look. Her smile became genuine; it wasn’t often she could get a look like that out of him.

The door slid open behind her. “Barton, try this.” Coulson slid the cup across the table.

“I slipped him the antidote when he wasn’t looking.”

Coulson looked at her like she were crazy. Clint took a sip. He put the cup down, shrugged, and collapsed across the top of the table, twitching.

Coulson looked at him like he were crazy, too.

She took the chair next to Clint, and hid another real smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haralson County, Georgia, is a real place, as are Bremen, Georgia; Buchanan, Georgia; and most importantly, Budapest, Georgia. The area was inhabited for a time by Hungarian families who cultivated grapes for wine, but Prohibition in Georgia forced them to find another livelihood. I have taken some liberties with the geography of the area, but the cemetery is a real place, as is the house where Clint and Natasha spent the night. The sign by the cemetery really was knocked off (and removed) under mysterious circumstances, though I've moved it by a few months. Other than the geography and history mentioned above, any resemblance to real people or events is strictly coincidental.
> 
> Kudos to anyone who finds the call-outs in this chapter. There's a perfectly good version of this story where Wendy Watson and her boss kill Frau Schmidt, and a grateful Natasha joins them in solving exotic problems; meanwhile, one of the Lord Auditors finds his former boss discussing “how to expose traitors in your organization” with Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D.
> 
> Finally, in the interests of accuracy, tigers and hyenas co-exist over little of their respective ranges, and Lamarckian inheritance may not be [entirely wrong](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epigenetics).


	7. Come Hell or High Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: graphic violence; torture; brief gore and dismemberment, and references to the same; references to child abuse, including sexual

They finally got a signal, just a brief blip off of Barton's phone, and then it was gone-- the only contact since the explosion three days ago. They traced the signal to outside Dodoma. Coulson knew he shouldn't hope to find them alive, knew it had just been the last gasp of a drained battery... but it took effort to keep from jumping out of the helicopter until it was on the ground.

The plain was dotted with the remains of old German colonial buildings. “Spread out,” he ordered. “Try to make audio contact first.”

They started to search in quadrants. He eyed the area, trying to think like Barton, like Romanoff, and on a hunch jogged for the farthest buildings from the road. They were more decrepit than the others, probably older, and anyone looking would have dismissed them as inadequate shelter. He checked his phone again for a signal. Nothing.

“Hawkeye!” he called, slowing as he reached the buildings. The nearest was clearly empty, open to the wind and the rain, no crevices in shadow. “Black Widow!” They were barely skeletons of buildings, only half the walls still standing. He eliminated another and checked a third. “Barton!” 

Only echoes, and the sound of the people searching behind him.

_Hope is unprofessional_ , he reminded himself. All the same, he couldn't live without it. “Romanoff!”

He owed them this much, to find their bodies and give them a decent burial. He suspected neither of them would have-- neither of them _would_ care. That wasn't the point.

“Clint!” he shouted, approaching the last building. Only silence. “Natash--”

He rounded the wall, and found himself looking into an arrowhead and a pistol.

He breathed out a _whoosh_ of surprise and relief. His two agents lowered their weapons, looking grim, weary, pained, dehydrated, and very much alive. He took stock as he touched his comm, and tried not to grin too much. “Found them. Farthest cluster of buildings to the east. Get medical here, now.”

He squatted on his heels. Barton was propped against the wall, his leg stretched out in front of him, his foot in a rough splint. Romanoff was half-collapsed against him; it looked like she'd had her head in his lap. Her left ankle was wrapped; the bandage around her upper arm was brown with dried blood, and a set of gashes across her stomach needed stitching. They were both sunburned, and covered in innumerable small abrasions. They looked wonderful. “Hell of a time finding you,” he said, in place of something less appropriate like, _I want to kiss you both_.

“Sorry,” Clint said. It sounded nothing like “Sorry” and a lot like “What the hell took you so long?”

Natasha reached her good arm into the hollow created by their bodies and the crumbling wall, behind an empty gallon jug, and handed him a burlap package. “Merry Christmas.”

“You got any painkillers?” Clint asked.

Coulson snapped his gaze away from the package. He'd given up hoping that they'd recovered it even before he'd given up hope for their survival. He dug in his suit pocket. “Here.” He opened the bottle and shook some into Clint's hand. 

Clint helped Natasha up. “ _Take_ the fucking pills.” It sounded like a recurring argument.

She smiled, and dry-swallowed four.

“Thanks for not biting me this time,” Clint added.

“You got off easy, Barton. When people stick their body parts in my mouth without asking me, I usually bite them _off_.”

Coulson didn't try to contain his smile. They were still alive, against all odds, and they were still snarling and wisecracking. He backed off to let the medics work. They loaded Clint onto the stretcher first; Natasha watched him with concern. “Sir, I need my--”

Coulson held up the bow and quiver. It said something about his condition that Clint just relaxed instead of making grabbing motions. As Natasha was carried carefully towards the helicopter, Coulson picked up the rest: the gallon jug, the bag that had probably held food but was now empty even of crumbs, and the pill bottle, and followed behind.

*

He went by the infirmary to check on his people, make sure they weren't harassing the medical staff too much. Natasha and Clint both tended to be professional about that, knowing better than to antagonize the people looking after them. “Tended to be” was the key phrase there.

They'd been put in the same room on the theory that Clint was less likely to flee to the ventilation shafts (and rip his stitches), and Natasha was less likely to sneak out (trailing her IV) and hide somewhere else, if they were together. Phil would have thought that after three days stuck dying together, they would have wanted a little time apart, but he wouldn't argue if it made them behave.

Clint had his eyes closed and appeared to be sleeping. So did Natasha, which meant she probably wasn't. Once he'd realized how little she slept in the infirmary, he'd started turning a blind eye to her sneaking out and holing up in her room. But this time she definitely needed to be monitored. And since Clint was also laid up, he couldn't go check on her once a day as she did her wounded animal impression, which was another reason to keep her here. All that explained why Natasha was now glaring at him from under lowered lids.

He settled into a chair to see if Clint would wake any time soon. Hospitals and infirmaries made Clint uneasy-- most confined spaces with no easy exit did, but medical care seemed to make things worse. Visitors helped. Phil, for some reason he himself did not know, seemed to help. So he waited, filing reports on his tablet and feeling the weight of Natasha's glare on the top of his head.

Finally he looked up. “You have something to say, Agent Romanoff?” He kept his voice quiet.

“When do I get to leave?” Her voice was low, but she didn't need volume to be intimidating.

He would never admit it, but there were times when she _could_ intimidate him. This was not one of them; her eyes couldn't even focus on his face. He took her chart from the base of the bed. “When you can pass a vision test, when the doctor signs off that you're no longer dehydrated and have sufficient blood, and when it's been twenty-four hours since you were coughing up blood.”

She looked like she was repressing the Russian equivalent of “fuck you.”

He dropped the clipboard back in its case. “Though I'd appreciate it if you would stay. Clint's going to tear his side stitches if he crawls into the ventilation shaft.”

“Hmm.” Natasha settled back.

“Has he been awake lately?”

“About four hours ago. He should wake up soon.”

Working in the quiet of the infirmary room was surprisingly productive; if no one knew where to find him, they couldn't interrupt him. He finished the second report on the Tanzania op, rescheduled a meeting, checked the status of a strike team deep in the South Pacific, and put his tablet away. Then he took out the package he hadn't had time to open before. He opened it and turned the contents over and over, studying it carefully. Was it a bit more bent around the edges than the others? He took them out of the same pocket to compare.

“Are those _trading cards_?” Natasha asked, squinting.

He casually put them down, shielding them from her line of sight with his hand. “Uh--”

“Yes.” Clint's voice was rough with sleep. “Captain America. Four of them.” He wasn't squinting at all.

He gave up on denial. “They're vintage. Just got the newest one yesterday.”

His agents exchanged smirks.

Coulson cleared his throat. “How are you feeling, Barton?”

“When can I leave?”

Coulson didn't dignify that with a response. “Director Fury is impressed with both of your work.”

“Good. Can he reward me with one get-out-of-infirmary-free pass?”

“No.”

Clint closed his eyes again.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Never felt better, sir.”

“You’re such an excellent liar, Barton.” Coulson slipped the cards back in his pocket for safe-keeping— and to keep them out of view, though at this point it was shutting the barn door behind the horse. “Truly, you could sell me the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“It’s not fair being sarcastic when I’m heavily medicated, sir.”

“Life’s not fair, Barton.”

“No, sir,” Clint agreed mournfully. 

Natasha had her eyes closed again. Phil still didn’t think she was asleep, but if anything could make her let go, it would probably be knowing that Clint was awake and watching.

Clint frowned, and tried to huddle into the bed. “What do they have me on?”

Phil looked at his clipboard. “Mecloprofen. A new discovery by Research, apparently.”

Clint made a discontented noise. “Guinea pigs again.”

“Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., pellet dispenser’s on your left. Are the side effects bothering you?”

“Cold. Which is weird, I’m usually comfortable in here.”

“Hmm.” The cabinet was empty. He could call a nurse, or-- “I’ll be right back.” The nearest supply closet was down the hall. He grabbed three blankets; Natasha was on the same drug and might have a similar reaction. 

When he got back, the room was empty.

_Son of a—_

He stuck his head into the surrounding rooms, but there was no sign of them. He checked the nearest cross-corridor: nothing. He’d been barely twenty steps away, and half the time he’d been on his way _back._ They were injured and drugged; it should have been impossible for them to get out of the room and out of sight so quickly, unnoticed. He knew better than to underestimate them, but it was difficult when they were constantly surprising him.

In the condition they were in, he couldn't let this-- them-- go. He headed for Clint's room. The expectation of finding them there together brought back an idea that had occurred to him in Chicago and occurred to him more forcefully in Budapest: _were_ they sexually intimate?

Because he kept an ear on S.H.I.E.L.D. gossip and an eye on the well-being of his people, he knew that Clint had had a relationship with Bobbi Morse shortly after joining S.H.I.E.L.D. It hadn't been hard to find out; Clint had come in with his code name, Morse had already had hers, and the resulting bird jokes-- like “Hawkeye and Mockingbird sitting in a tree”-- had been difficult to miss. Phil had ignored all that and just considered it a good sign to see his suspicious, cynical, hard-bitten recruit, who wore his distrust of humanity on his sleeve more constantly than he wore actual sleeves, sitting with someone else in the mess and _smiling._

But he also knew that relationship had ended badly. Rumor— though to be fair to Agent Morse, not one she had started herself— had attributed it to Clint’s being gay. Since Phil _also_ knew about the failed relationship with John Merrell, he was inclined to doubt that. What he knew of Natasha’s sexual history was horrifying, and gave no information at all about her own inclinations.

Phil had never even considered asking Clint about either relationship. It was Clint’s private life. But neither Agent Morse nor Agent Merrell had been Clint’s partner, and now that private life was bleeding into the professional world. Phil had never expected them to become so close; the part of his brain that thought of them as _friends_ , that had watched Clint isolate himself far too long on the presumption that he was irredeemably fucked up, was pleased that they'd each found something worth having in their personal lives, whatever shape it took. The professional part of his brain said that it could only be good for their effectiveness in the field... until it got in the way.

But Clint's room was empty. When he tried Natasha's room, he had to use an emergency override on the door, though it should have opened for him automatically. He broke his longstanding rule about not letting his agents raise his blood pressure. There were a lot of other places the two of them could be, none of them good ideas. They usually weren’t this stupid.

He’d crawl into the vents after them if he had to, but he absolutely would _not_ search the entire system himself. He wasn’t going in until he had a location. He still had no idea where Clint went in there, and he knew from experience that the maintenance sensors weren’t sensitive enough to pick up the change in temperature caused by one person in the shafts, but two people might be enough. He got into maintenance’s systems, then started a program to notify him of any significant deviations in temperature.

He stopped by his quarters for some paperwork. That lightbulb was out again; he needed maintenance to check the circuit for a short--

He heard breathing--

He went for his gun as he turned, then just as quickly reversed the direction of his reach, keeping his hand open. “What,” he said, calmly and reasonably, “the hell are you doing here?”

“Thought you’d be heading for the South Pacific by now.” It at least looked like they'd ended up on the floor under their own power. And they had a stockpile of food and bottled beverages from the mess. And bandages. How had they _gotten_ that without someone noticing?

“Your tablet was reflecting off the observation window,” Natasha added.

He’d thought she’d had her eyes closed the whole time. “The situation resolved itself.”

“We can move,” Clint offered.

“Back to the infirmary? Yes, you can.” He looked up at the lightbulb, trying to figure out how they’d reached it in order to loosen it.

Clint and Natasha looked at each other. Then they looked at him. They didn’t actually _say_ “Make us,” but the meaning was clear enough.

He looked at them, and repressed his irritation and his anger. He had rules for a reason, and snapping at his people— _these_ people—when they were hurt was always a bad idea. He sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re smarter than this. Both of you,” he pointed out gently.

They stared back, unnervingly.

“You both know better than to jeopardize your recovery— your permanent function— over a power play.”

“Phil, I hate hospitals, you _know_ I hate hospitals, the worst day of my life I woke up in one, and they put me on these drugs-- I can’t stand being there, I can’t stand the drugs, the past and present slide around in my mind, I can’t— remember.”

Clint was never this chatty— this forthcoming about what he considered weaknesses— unless he was drugged. Natasha didn’t say anything, but he knew that she, too, hated to be vulnerable, and probably felt a lot like Clint did. The way they watched him— the way Natasha’s eyes, especially, tracked his every move— It was almost inhuman, but it was more than that— 

He knew that Clint considered himself damaged. He would have laid money readily on Natasha’s thinking the same. Yet they functioned well in S.H.I.E.L.D., and when they didn’t quite fit in, whatever came to light when other people were present tended to be a light, harmless, quirk. Like Clint's fondness for purple, or Natasha's ill-concealed love, bordering on worship, for diners that served breakfast all day.

This was what it looked like, he realized, when they weren’t wearing any masks.

He watched them watch him, and felt irritatedly fond. He liked them a lot, if he was being honest with himself. He didn’t want them to get hurt; he was surprised, not unhappily so, by the way they balanced each other; he was pleased by how well they worked together as a strike team; he was concerned that if they’d started a sexual relationship, it would end badly; he had all sorts of thoughts that could best be classified under _worry_.

“What am I supposed to do with you? You’re _in my bedroom_.” Manhattan was the only place he maintained permanent quarters— he had a locker in Missouri and on the Helicarrier, and bunked down wherever there was room. “You need to go back to the infirmary.”

“Not happening.” Natasha’s voice was crisp. He would never have known she was drugged if her eyes had been able to consistently focus on his face.

“A compromise,” Clint suggested.

“Like what?”

“Remote monitoring bracelets.”

“And someone coming by from Medical twice a day to check on us.”

“Four times a day,” he said automatically.

“Three,” Clint countered.

He sighed. “Fine.”

Clint rolled over far enough to look at Natasha, and grimaced in pain. “Where?”

She thought. “Mine is bigger.”

“‘kay.”

Phil wanted them to get along, was glad they got along. But he didn't want them to cross the line from “strong, working relationship” to “co-dependency.” To be fair, maybe he should save his concerns for when they weren’t on heavy medication.

On the other hand, it was rare that he got such an honest look at them. Even Clint still knew how to hide himself, after all these years.

Clint sat up. “We’re going to Natasha’s room.” His expression was unnaturally undignified. “You can send our keepers there.”

He sighed again. “I had other things to do today.”

Natasha got to her feet. He rarely saw her so wobbly. “Yeah? So did I.” She leaned down and offered Clint a hand. He took it, but didn’t pull himself up. He tugged feebly on her hand— even that made her wince.

Phil knelt beside him and put his shoulder under Clint’s arm. “Up on three— one, two, three.” He stood, and lifted. Clint made it up, but when Phil saw how much that hurt him, he didn’t withhold a reproachful stare.

Clint agreed to let him retrieve the wheelchair they’d ditched, which was good, because the alternative would have been Phil forcibly transferring him into the wheelchair. “How did you get out of there so fast?” He pushed Clint down the hall. Natasha had offered to do that; he'd pointed out, not unkindly, that she should concentrate on keeping herself upright.

“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.”

He looked at her. “Yes, you will.”

“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you _fewer_ lies.”

“You know I can just pull the security camera footage.”

Natasha shrugged. “Then pull it.”

That wouldn't have worked if she were fully functioning; he really shouldn’t have expected it to work now.

“If you think it'll help,” she added, with a small, evil smirk.

He decided to believe she was bluffing. The alternative was to conclude that somehow they had managed not only to escape but to disable the security cameras in less than a minute, while injured and heavily medicated. He knew better than to underestimate them-- but that still strained his imagination. And his ego.

Natasha got her door open on the first try. “Bed.” She pointed. “Put him on the.”

“It’s your room,” Clint protested, feebly.

“Thank you, Hawkeye, for that astute observation.”

On the grounds that Natasha was currently more functional and also more menacing than Clint, Phil helped Clint out of the chair and onto the bed. Then he helped him prop his foot on a stack of pillows. The room was small enough that the only place for Natasha to stand was directly behind him, at the closet; when he turned around, she was pulling things off the shelf with a dazed expression.

Phil caught her wrist, gently, as she was about to throw a three thousand dollar designer dress on the floor. “I think you want the blankets.” He pointed to the shelf above.

“Mm-hmm.” She grabbed the correct stack, obviously waiting for him to leave so she could lie down. He backed out to the doorway. She shook the blankets out, tossed them on the floor, and followed them down herself.

“Here,” Clint muttered. He pulled the pillow out from under his head— all the others were under his ankle— and tossed it at her. It landed on the back of her head. She didn’t react. 

“Natasha,” Phil sighed, “do I need to put you in the rescue position?” This was ridiculous. Why was he aiding and abetting this? He should have sent them back to Medical as soon as he’d found them camped out _in his bedroom_.

But in their current addled states, they probably would have made him resort to using force, and then they wouldn’t have forgiven him for a long time. Under each harmless quirk was something considerably sadder and less amusing.

She mumbled something incoherent and rolled onto her side. It didn’t look comfortable, but at least he was sure she was breathing.

By the time Phil retrieved the food and supplies they’d left _in his bedroom_ , picked up vitals bracelets from Medical, explained the situation to a very unhappy shift head doctor, and made the necessary arrangements, he felt like a glorified nursemaid. He’d also lost an hour out of his day. Why was he doing this again?

Because they were his people, of course, and this was what they needed.

On his way out of Medical he'd returned the supplies to a very puzzled nurse who couldn't find anything missing from his inventory. That was not Phil's problem. He'd also stopped at Facilities to get Natasha’s door recoded. They _would_ be talking about that when she was coherent enough to string two sentences together. This time the door slid open for him, and he got about half a second of relief at seeing they were both sleeping before they both cracked their eyes open and retrieved guns from God knew where in the same motion.

They relaxed again at seeing it was him. “Do _not_ ,” Phil crouched, picked up Natasha’s hand, and fastened the bracelet around her wrist, “shoot at your medical team.”

“No,” Natasha agreed, with reassuring gravity.

Clint muttered something that sounded like “only if they shoot at me first.”

Phil changed his mind. Better that they were here than in the infirmary, plaguing the life out of all the medical personnel in the ward. He remembered, too, how badly Clint had taken his recovery after being shot by H.Y.D.R.A. Maybe this alternative would allow him to recover without feeling like dead weight on S.H.I.E.L.D.

He put the food and water where they could both reach it. Natasha sat upright, which looked like it hurt. “Coulson.”

“Yes.”

“You opened my door.”

“Yes. I had it reset.” He gave her a stern look.

“ _Who_ can open my door?”

“You. Barton.” She would have added him anyway. “Me, as your immediate supervisor. The normal roster of Facilities people. Any agent with high enough clearance to have the override code. And any on-duty Medical staff who has their ID. That one's temporary.”

She watched him through slitted eyes for a moment before slumping back down. Either that was acceptable to her, or she was planning to rewire the door with two paperclips and a heeled shoe as soon as he left.

“Do you need anything?”

“No,” Natasha mumbled.

“A pony and a bottle of turtle wax,” Clint muttered.

“What’s the turtle wax for?”

“Fury’s head.”

“I’ll put the request in to him personally.” Pause. “I’m leaving now. _Behave_.”

“I always behave,” Natasha slurred, which was so ridiculous he didn’t bother to respond.

He got a text message from her when he’d made it back to his room, to fix that light while he was thinking about it, before any _other_ spies used it as an excuse to sneak into his bedroom: _oh you meant behave WELL._

Phil patted the top of his head. He could feel another grey hair coming in.

He checked on them at the end of the shift. That was Medical’s job, but they were his people. Natasha was sleeping so deeply that she didn’t stir when the door opened. He looked to make sure she was breathing. The bracelet would have alerted if she weren't, but he'd never seen her that unresponsive unless she was unconscious or comatose, neither of which were comforting precedents. But he knew that if Clint had thought she needed medical attention, he would have raised hell to get it to her.

She was on an air mattress now— someone from Medical had apparently been smarter than her, and realized that hard floors padded by thin blankets were not ideal for recovery— so she must have been awake at some point, because she never would have let anyone move her. Clint was awake, propped up against more pillows, reading. He looked up when Phil came in, but didn’t say anything. Phil stepped carefully over Natasha.

“How are you?” he asked softly.

“I’m great.”

Phil glanced at the tablet, but all he could see was the name at the top. “I didn’t take you for a Faulkner fan.”

Clint shrugged. “The drugs made me think strange things. I was rememberin’ how the mike went out at the last all-hands briefing, so I figured I’d give it a shot.”

Phil sighed, no longer needing to look to see the title.

Clint grinned, clearly pleased at having gotten a rise out of him. “Not what I expected,” he added. “It’s, uh… they’re kinda crazy.” He swallowed. “Never thought that would feel familiar.”

Phil knew that this was more than Clint would say if he were completely sober, and he was too much Clint’s friend to dig for information. So he let it go. “How’s she?” He nodded towards Natasha.

“Better, I think. She was awake not too long ago.”

From the way Clint was stringing words together coherently, and the way the glitter in his eyes was gone, Phil could tell that the drugs had mostly worn off— which meant Clint hadn’t taken his next dose. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Natasha hadn’t, either. If they wanted to be that stupid, let them; he wasn’t _actually_ their parent, no matter how he felt sometimes.

Phil sat gently on the edge of the bed, careful not to jog the mattress. Maybe the carrot would work better than the stick. “We have a job for you.”

Clint looked at his foot, then back at Phil.

“When you’re back on normal duty. It’s during the tourist season anyway. Should be nice. Warm.”

“What are we doing?”

“Playing tourist. Enjoying the sun. Safecracking.”

“I look forward to it.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days.”

He turned around, but Natasha was in exactly the same position as she had been when he’d walked in, stepped over her, and carried on a conversation with Clint. She was right, if you substituted _a week or two_ for _a few days_. She would heal far more quickly than Clint would, even allowing for her tendency to push herself too hard; her injuries weren’t as serious.

“If you’re good,” he agreed.

“What then?”

“You get to share your wisdom with some of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s less experienced members.”

Clint translated that. “You get to _babysit_ ,” he crowed.

“Don’t send anyone you want back,” she muttered. She still hadn’t moved.

“You won’t be alone. We’ll send you out with other agents who've done this before. It’s not difficult.”

Clint snorted. “Until they turn creative. Like the time the two trainees made a sex swing out of duct tape, and then it got stuck on the guy’s—“

“Clint.”

“Or that group that decided to weave an entire protective wall out of poison ivy around their encampment. Worked great until the stampede.”

“Don’t tra— don’t scare Natasha unnecessarily.”

“She’s asleep,” Clint pointed out.

How could he _tell?_

“Think she waited until I woke up to really sleep. Thought one of us should be conscious.” He looked abashed. “She wanted to walk out for help. I wouldn't let her. I was afraid she would die if she went but I was afraid I was killing her by making her stay.”

It took Phil a moment to catch up. “If you could _make_ her do anything, then you made the right call.”

“I know, but I thought I was bein' selfish, that I didn't want to die alone.” Clearly the drugs hadn't _entirely_ worn off yet. “We just had to sit there and wait, and hope you'd come through. Somehow.”

It didn't take a lot of imagination to picture what that must have been like. Was it really a surprise that the dynamics of their working relationship might have been warped a bit by the experience? “The doctors said she had a concussion and had lost a lot of blood.” He hesitated. “The danger of being taught to overcome every limit on pain of torture is that you don't know where your real limits are.”

Clint nodded, eyes drooping, clearly at his limit for coherent conversation for now. “Thanks. For coming for us.”

Phil smiled. “Always.” Then he stepped carefully over Natasha again. “I have to go eavesdrop on a meeting with the ambassador from Gabon. Don’t make your medical care cry.”

“That was once and she deserved it.”

“I don’t care who started it, don’t _finish_ it.” He left before Clint could retort.

It was like herding both cats and toddlers, if cats and toddlers had the manual dexterity to handle high-powered weapons and be dangerous to everyone around them. He shook his head, and went to do something less taxing, like revamp the entire tax structure of Papua New Guinea using an abacus constructed from toothpicks and hard candy.

*

At the training briefing, the first person she saw was Carter.

Carter gave her a nod. Natasha nodded back, and waited for Carter to say something like “they’re trusting _you_ with recruits?”, but she didn’t.

The two older agents in the room looked up when she entered, but didn't stop their quiet conversation about some mission in Manila. Were they partners-- another strike team, possibly? She didn't know much about the others, or even how many there were. At least three others would be logical-- Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie-- but she didn't know who was on them or what they did. Maybe the others weren't as permanent? She and Clint were both floaters, under Phil’s command but not assigned to any particular division, going wherever they were needed. She didn’t know how many floaters there were; most of S.H.I.E.L.D. was either soldiers or suits. Maybe other strike teams were put together as needed.

Carter glanced at the door, then back at her. “No Barton?”

“He broke his foot in Dodoma.”

“Right, I heard about that.”

“ _Everyone_ heard about that.” The man looked at Natasha with new interest. “There was a betting pool, on whether Coulson’s kids were dead or off the radar. You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must be Agent Romanoff.”

“Yes.”

“It’s an honor to meet you. I'm Agent Faulks.”

“Hi.” Natasha looked at him, trying to parse “honor” and “you” when they occurred in the same sentence together. Carter snorted.

“Who won the pool?” Natasha asked.

“Agent Thibodeaux.”

The name was familiar. She thought for a moment, then smiled slightly when she remembered the blonde pilot who’d constantly mouthed off to Clint.

“We-- ” Faulks looked uneasy. “I mean, we didn’t mean any disrespect, by the pool. It’s just something we do. Waiting for news. It helps with the tension.”

Natasha looked at him, wondering what his life was like that he thought this could possibly bother her. She’d seen much more callous disregard for her life in her previous jobs. From her previous _employers_.

The door slid open, admitting three more people: a tall man with balding white hair, and two younger men. The tall man sat down at the head of the table and nodded at them. “Agent Carter, Agent Jones, Agent Scotts, Agent Lín, Agent Faulks, Agent Romanoff. You'll be leading the spring training excursion in the Badlands.”

“The whatlands?” she said.

“Montana,” Carter said.

“You’ll split into three teams, each responsible for twenty agents or recruits. The excursion is ten days. Your primary job is to get them back alive and in one piece. Your secondary job is to knock some sense into them, and show them what rough conditions and long hours are like. This is also a team-building exercise.” He smiled grimly. “For them, not for you.”

“You’ll get there a week early to get a feel for the land, then meet the kids at a small S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost just outside of Butte. I believe Agent Scotts and Agent Lín are the only ones who have been in this particular region.”

“I have,” Carter said.

“It’s not in the database.”

“Before S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Mm.” He made a note on his tablet. 

“How green are they?” Natasha asked.

“Most of them are completing their first six months of S.H.I.E.L.D. training— for the suit track. The soldiers already had a much more rigorous training exercise. However, you’ll also have Allegiance Squad, which was ordered to complete the exercise again, remedially. Twelve people, split evenly amongst you.”

Carter’s eyebrows went up. “What did they do?”

“Nearly torpedoed a cross-division mission that was four months in the set-up. If their second-in-command hadn't disobeyed direct orders and nearly gotten herself killed, the whole thing would have gone down the toilet. You might find that some of them don’t like each other very much.”

“Then why aren’t you sticking them all together?” Faulks asked.

“They're getting split up and reassigned. The composition of that squad was a compounding series of poor judgment calls by a number of higher-ups. It never should have happened. We need to know which ones will do fine in another setting, and which ones are hopeless.” He paused. “You’ll also have the remnants of a squad that lost half their members in an ambush in Malta. Another _gift_ of Agent Robinson.” His lips curled. “Most of them are pretty traumatized. They may not be able to return to field work. But we’re hoping this will ease them gently back into it.” He paused. “Any other questions?”

“Agent Jones, you’ll be with Agent Faulks; Agent Carter, with Agent Scotts; Agent Romanoff, with Agent Lín.”

She looked at Lín. He wasn't awed, terrified, or ogling her; good. She could work with anything else.

“You’ll start out heading west, towards the Idaho border…”

*

Leading trainees was boring and unpleasant, but she’d done much worse, so she barely paid attention to the discomfort.

The trainees did not follow her example. Some of them— most of them— were fairly stalwart. That group fell into two further groups, the ones who would not whine _no matter what_ , and the ones who were only human, and grumbled quietly at the end of the day. Or during the day, but kept it even quieter then. They still carried their weight and did their chores, and their pain seemed to make them more sympathetic to the other trainees in the same situation, so she let them be. Team-building through pain: the Red Room had done the same, only with more pain, and always, always, the message that their ultimate loyalty was to the Red Room itself, and not each other.

The rest of the trainees whined about the food, the cold, and their blisters. One of them whined about having to take dumps in the woods without toilet paper. Another had actually _brought_ toilet paper, which at least showed initiative. 

At least she wasn’t supervising _actual_ children, or— good God— responsible for the development of anyone’s moral fiber.

They were a week out. It had rained all night, or all the time she’d been awake for. She’d reluctantly accepted that she couldn’t stay awake for ten days, straight, and that at some point, she would have to trust the trainees as sentries. She didn’t like that; it wasn’t supposed to be a trust building exercise for _her_. 

– or maybe it was. She shouldn’t underestimate Coulson’s ability to be devious.

She might, theoretically, have considered trusting Agent Lín, but she'd lost him to one of the other groups the second day out, when Faulks had broken his leg with a compound fracture and had to be medevaced out, and one of the trainees had come down with a bad fever. She'd elected _not_ to be medevaced out; these situations could and did happen in the field, and it was important for them to know how to deal with them. She was doing better, apparently, but Natasha and Carter were still riding herd on their groups alone.

So she'd determined, early, who was most reliable; when they were standing watch she let herself sleep deeply. Last night had been a good night, with competent sentries all night. She watched the kids grumble, quietly, over another cold breakfast.

Or not so quietly. “Oh my God, this is _atrocious_ ,” whined a tall kid with curly red hair. “Why the hell do we have to do this, anyway? We’re going to be _agents_ , not Navy SEALS. We’ll be tailing government officials, not camping in the woods like rednecks and eating _slop_.”

Her leadership skills weren’t great— she’d kept order this last week by inspiring terror, which was more than effective enough. But her instincts told her it was time to address this, instead of ignoring it.

“When I was twelve, my trainers sent us out in the middle of winter with a boar spear. Just a boar spear.”

He hadn’t heard her coming; he jumped, awkwardly, and spun around. She hadn’t spoken loudly, but everyone in the clearing was listening intently.

“We had to stay out for a week. If we came back earlier, they used us for target practice.” She looked at the tall redhead meaningfully.

He swallowed.

“Uh— target practice with— Not with guns,” said a short, curvy, blonde woman— one of the quiet grumblers. “Right? I mean… that wouldn’t be efficient, to kill off their…” She trailed off when Natasha didn’t say anything.

“In my year—“ as far as she remembered— “two went back early.” Who knew what they’d been thinking; she'd known by then that the trainers never, ever compromised, never, ever bluffed. Maybe they’d hoped to persuade Ivan, or Madame, with begging, or with sexual favors. Maybe Ivan had allowed them to think that would work. It was exactly the sort of thing the sadistic fucker would have done.

“To make it a challenge for the older trainees,” she continued, to an audience who looked like they wanted to stop listening and couldn’t, “the trainers gave them a chance to run for their lives. One didn’t make it. One did. But then she was back in the same predicament she’d just left.” She should have thought of that before she’d come in— or maybe she had thought of it, wanting a quick death by bullet rather than a slow death by hypothermia, only to discover self-preservation instincts flaring back to life. “They found her corpse a week later. They thought she was dead before the bears got her, but they weren’t entirely sure.”

In the absolute silence that followed, she heard the breeze scouring the bare trees.

“Your trainers had you kill each other?” That was the boy in the back, hair just short enough to stay on the right side of the regulations. She didn’t understand why S.H.I.E.L.D. even cared how long their hair was. He was one of the stalwarts.

“Often.” She let the silence hang until she thought it had had a sufficiently salutary effect. “Pack up.”

She’d never seen them scramble so fast. Maybe if she told them more horrific stories from her childhood, they wouldn’t give her any more trouble for the rest of the trip. What else could she tell them? Anything that involved her, personally, was off limits, but maybe the story about the electroshock—

A muffled titter from the two cleaning up the fire. She sighed inwardly. _That lasted a long time_. She had a new respect for what Coulson did.

They didn’t hear her coming. “What is it?”

The one jumped, and put his foot down on a specific spot. “Uh, nothing.”

She stared at him. She had to stare up, but he didn’t appear to have noticed. He swallowed, and backed up. She looked down at what he’d been hiding— a condom, presumably used.

They weren’t supposed to be 'fraternizing' out here. If they had that much energy left, they were doing something wrong. While S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t prohibit sex where there was no rank disparity, teambuilding exercises were off limits. You were supposed to trust your teammates because you knew they’d have your back, not because you’d been making the beast with two backs. Or something like that. She didn’t really buy into the whole trust thing.

But they were supposed to. She poked it with her toe. “Whose is this?”

The trainees looked at each other. At least the sentries should have heard the 'fraternization,' and she was willing to bet some of the others had as well. _So much for sleeping deeply, Romanoff._

“You can come forward now, or I can put it on ice, have the semen DNA-typed when we get back to base, and publish the results on the front page of the S.H.I.E.L.D. intranet.”

Shuffling. One trainee didn’t so much come forward as the others parted around him. It was the tall redheaded boy. His face was flushed nearly as red as his hair, but he stared at her defiantly.

“Did you leave any others around?”

“No.”

“Pick it up.”

He made a face, leaned down, and picked it up by the edges.

“You get to carry that until we reach a trash can, three days from now.”

“Can’t I put it in the trash bag?” he whined.

“You _could_ have, but you didn’t. If you drop it somewhere, I’ll tape it to your forehead.”

He pouted, but stuck the thing in his pocket.

“Why did you bring condoms on a teambuilding exercise?”

His expression turned scornful. “In all your _training_ , they never told you where babies come from?”

She stared at him. She didn't blink. She didn't move. She used her posture to hide the movement of her breath. She let the silence stretch out, to make him uncomfortable, and to give herself time to get past the sudden urge to smash his head into the nearest tree. The only thing that restrained her was a strong resolve not to let on her reaction.

He fidgeted. He looked away. He looked down at the ground. He looked around for someone to hide behind.

She'd been about to ask him who he'd used the condom _with_ , because Lewis was not the only guilty party, but she could find out later; she wasn't going to diffuse the situation now. The Red Room had taught her with pain; she would pass on the lesson. “Agent Butler. Switch packs with Agent Lewis. He'll be carrying the large tent for the next three days. And the food bag. And digging the latrines, since he apparently doesn't know how to deal with his bodily excretions.”

Lewis opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. Butler, and everyone who'd been signed up for latrine duty, looked pleased at their unexpected good fortune.

They got moving without further mishap. She took up the rear, with one of the most trustworthy trainees at the front. They'd come out of the badlands proper into forested foothills, but the terrain was still rough, cut with sharp gullies. They squelched through the rain, took a short break for lunch, and kept going again. It finally stopped raining in early afternoon.

“Agent Romanoff?” someone murmured. It was the dark-haired boy who’d spoken up earlier— Branchett. “May I ask you something? Ma’am.”

Seven days of being called ma’am was reawakening long-quieted homicidal urges. “You can ask.” He swallowed. “How did _you_ get out of the training exercise alive? When you were twelve. Ma’am.”

She was silent for a while. “It’s not an age-appropriate bedtime story.”

He looked disappointed, but didn’t press the point. “Um. If you don’t mind if I ask. Ma’am. _Where_ were you trained?”

“Russia.”

His eyes got wide. “Like… with the secret police?”

She suppressed a smile. In the Red Room, they’d mocked the training and preparedness (or lack thereof) of all the government’s various other agencies, from the military special forces to the FSB. “Only if we were bad.”

He opened his mouth. The walkie-talkie clicked on. She heard screaming and loud roaring. 

“Report!” she snapped.

More roaring-- “Agent—“ A voice gasped. The connection went dead.

They were closer now than they'd been all week, the three groups converging onto the only route across a series of canyons. Depending on which group, they were either one or two miles away— “Branchett, you’re in charge. Everyone stay down.” She pushed past them and started sprinting. “Carter, come in. Jones, Scotts, Lín, come in, this is Romanoff.”

“Carter here.” There was no roaring in the background.

“Was that your—“

“No, I’ve got nothing.” 

“I’m coming up behind you. Do you see anything?”

“No. I've lost visual contact with the group ahead. Where are your trainees?”

“A mile behind you.”

“You need to keep them with you. This could be a trap.”

_If it is, putting us all in one place won’t help_. But-- she had to admit that Carter knew more about this than she did. She switched onto the channel for her group’s other walkie-talkie. “Get up here as fast as you can without risking your ankles.” She heard the sound of twenty elephants running through the woods behind, so she kept going. “Jones, Scotts, Lín, do you copy.”

“Something up ahead,” Carter said. “Sounds like water running.”

_What?_ “Can you get to high ground and look?” It would take Natasha time they didn't have to do the mile if she had to keep her group with her.

“We’re going as fast as we can—“ She went off the line for a second. “I sent one of mine up a tree with the binoculars.”

Natasha kept running. She recalled the name of the trainee carrying the second walkie-talkie. “Olgov, report.”

“We’re coming up behind you, ma'am.” She was breathless. “Ma’am, what’s the situation?”

She hesitated, but if telling them would produce mass panic, then they weren’t fit to be S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. “We lost contact with group one.”

“Uh… ma’am, if that’s the case, should we be rushing into whatever trouble they’re in so quickly?”

It was a fair point. “Don’t worry. Group two will get there first.”

“My trainee sees something reflective up ahead. Could be water.”

Natasha recalled the map: there _wasn't_ any large body of water in this region, just a few small creeks.

“I hear screaming.” Carter sounded grim. “-- it's gone now.”

“I’m calling it in.” Natasha switched channels. “All S.H.I.E.L.D. units, be advised, this is Agent Romanoff with the spring training exercise—“ She rattled off their approximate coordinates. “We have just lost contact with group one. Repeat, we have lost all contact with Agents Jones, Scotts, and Lín, and twenty trainees.”

She got static. Then, faintly: “… do... copy… Romanoff.”

“Will update when we know what happened.” There was only more static.

A new crackle: “… Romanoff, Carter… copy? … group one,” a vaguely familiar female voice said.

“Who is this?” she and Carter demanded at the same time.

“… Hill. Backup walkie-talkie… Group One… Flood.” It wasn’t a crackle, Natasha realized, it was a roar. Hill’s voice came back stronger. “Repeat, a flash flood came down and swept away most of our group. Nine of us got to higher ground.”

Hill— why was that familiar? Natasha remembered a rocky mountainside in Georgia, and a brisk, efficient woman who'd taken charge of the other trainees once they were on board the quinjet.

“Hill, do you have contact with any of the group leaders?” Carter asked.

“Negative. They’re all gone.”

“Is the water still rising?” Natasha demanded.

“No. It’s confined to the canyon for now. It appeared out of nowhere, but it took a few minutes to reach the depth it is now. It’s been holding steady since.”

She sorted through that. “What the fuck were you all doing walking in a stream bed?” she demanded. The senior agents ought to have known better, if no one else did.

“With respect, ma’am, the ‘stream bed’ had saplings that were my age. It had been dry for a long time.”

“You think this all— this _couldn’t_ all have been from last night,” Carter said.

“Snow melt?” Hill suggested.

“Hill, what’s your status?” Natasha asked. “Do you have a way to retreat if the water does rise?”

“We’re— in a cave, higher up the side of a rock wall. There's a narrow ledge, but we cannot immediately retreat. I don’t know how far back the cave goes… We have injuries, but nothing immediately life-threatening.”

“We’re coming over the rise— mother of _God_.” Carter went silent.

“Carter.”

“Uh, yes. Here. This is… fucking impressive. Uh… we're on relatively high ground here, I'm not sure there's enough watershed to produce this much water. The canyon is nearly full.”

Natasha belatedly remembered her trainees, listened— yes, she could still hear them stumbling and crashing around— and switched channels. “Olgov?”

“We see you up ahead. Ma’am, do we know the situation with group one?”

“Flash flood. We re-established contact.” She switched back. “Carter, does it look natural to you?”

“Natural as in ‘normal’, or natural as in ‘by catastrophic act of nature’?”

“The second one.”

“Uhh… it certainly could be. That’s the thing about natural disasters, they never look natural. I was in Louisiana in 2005— that was the most unnatural thing I ever saw.”

“Do you see Hill and her group?”

“We’re waving a navy blue piece of cloth,” Hill said.

“Yes— I see you.” Pause. “Agent Romanoff, we'll wait for you. We won’t all fit onto that ledge where Hill and the others are.”

“Understood.”

It was a tense five minutes before she, too, crested the ridge. She understood, immediately, why Carter had gone silent. Churning water full of debris roared angrily through the canyon. She saw Carter’s group up ahead, and the navy flag along the side of the rock face. It would be hard to get out there.

She waited for her trainees. “Stay quiet,” she ordered when they appeared, mouths slack in shock and fear. “And _stay away_ from the edge.” Making sure they obeyed, she brought her group up to meet Carter’s.

“We need to get out to that cave,” Carter said. “Jamison, Murdock, you have command, keep the group five hundred feet back from the edge at all times.” She glanced up at Natasha.

“Olgov, Branchett, you’re in charge. Same orders.”

“Hill, we’re approaching from the north,” Carter said. Natasha fell into step behind her. She wasn’t going to walk in _front_ of the other woman on a narrow ledge above a violently rushing river. Carter would be foolish to try to kill her in the middle of this situation, but Natasha hadn’t lived this long by assuming people weren’t fools.

Carter turned around and raised an eyebrow, as if she knew what Natasha were thinking. But she didn’t comment, just stepped onto the narrow ledge and eased herself along. It was barely wide enough to stand with two feet side-by-side.

“Christ,” Carter whispered.

Natasha eyed her— still moving, but pale. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights.”

Carter shot her a look, half-irritated, half-defiant. “Okay, I won’t.”

Natasha filed that away in the proper slot in her mind. It was always good to know your ally’s vulnerabilities. It was always good to know of your enemy’s vulnerabilities.

They reached the break in the rock face. Carter inched inside, visibly relieved to get away from the edge. Natasha's respect for Hill rose: what Hill hadn’t mentioned over the walkie-talkie was that three of her people were obviously non-responsive— the survivors of the Malta squad, in shock?— one had a broken arm, and one was unconscious. Half of them were soaking wet, shivering in the cool spring air. Impressive for a trainee--

But Hill wasn't a trainee, was she? Natasha remembered the files: she'd been commissioned shortly after the Georgia rescue, into Allegiance Squad. She'd made full agent not long before the Allegiance debacle.

Hill herself was oozing blood from a long scrape on her left arm. “We have the walkie-talkie, one of the medical kits, and one of the emergency rescue kits. Everything else was lost.”

“Tell us what happened.”

“We were strung out along the canyon floor. All of us who survived were in the front— Lín was ahead of me, Scotts was three behind me. Lopez yelled for us to “run up.” I was near a sloping part of the canyon, so I started to climb. So did everyone ahead of me. We barely got up before the water came. I saw—“ For the first time, her calm cracked, and she glanced away. “I saw bodies in the water. I couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead. Lín tried to grab one of them and fell in himself.”

She swallowed hard, and continued. “Three managed to cling to a small tree that was caught in the flood. The roots jammed into the canyon wall right where we were, and we got hold of it. We managed to keep it in place long enough to get them off. That’s how Lopez broke his arm. We were barely above the water, and it was rising. I saw this place above, and got everyone up here.”

Natasha knew it hadn't been as simple as Hill had described. The rock face might have been gentler under the water, but it was near vertical directly below the cave, and they’d only had four completely intact people.

Droplets of spray tickled her face. She frowned. “This... is too warm for snow melt.”

Hill and Carter both looked at her, then at the water. “And it’s too clear,” Carter added after a minute. “It’s dark, but it’s not very muddy. Wherever it came from, it should have picked up a lot of sediment.”

Hill took the rescue buoy from the nearest backpack, inflated it, and tossed it in. The water carried it swiftly away.

“I don’t think anyone downstream is going to come looking,” Carter said.

“I know. It’s just a hunch.” She looked up. “I tried to reach base, but I couldn’t get them to come in.”

“Neither could I,” Carter said.

“Neither could— I.” 

They exchanged looks of unpleasantly dawning suspicion.

“We need to get your people out of here,” Natasha said.

“If someone’s after them, this might be the safest place.”

“If the water level rises, they’ll be trapped like—“ She saw Hill’s suppressed shiver, sidelong, and cut herself off. “They’ll drown. There’s plenty of cover outside. And we need to get the wet ones warmed up.”

Carter tilted her head, conceding the point. “I didn’t bring any supplies— any rope.” She glanced back at the ledge.

“I’ll go.” Natasha went back, tried-- and failed-- to contact base while she was open, and returned with one of her group’s backpacks. As she crossed the ledge, she played out a spool of rope; the other end of was anchored by six of their heaviest trainees.

First they sent across the barely responsive agents. Somehow, Hill got them up, and communicated to them what they needed to do. Her voice was too low to make out her words.

“Don’t scorn them,” Carter muttered, watching Natasha watch the last one inch across. “They’re in shock, they’ve got PTSD.”

Natasha looked at her, then back at the agents. It was true, she had automatically categorized them as non-functional, liabilities rather than assets, in a way that was rather detached. Clint would have seen them for as people first. But it was also probably true that of all the people in the cave right now, she could best relate to the turmoil in their heads.

Natasha took the trainee with the broken arm across, one arm firmly around his waist, one on the rope behind them. He was brave; he barely made a sound. Then she crossed back, before either of the others could come over, and offered to take the unconscious woman.

“You don’t have to coddle me,” Carter snapped, when Hill turned away to check that this end of the rope was holding fast.

Natasha stared at her blankly. It hadn't escaped her notice that Carter had saved her life multiple times now, and had gone from wishing her dead to being professionally cooperative, but Carter's _feelings_ hadn't been at the forefront of her mind. She took some extra rope, secured the unconscious woman to her, and inched across again before Carter could argue. 

Everyone else could make it under their own power, but she went back anyway. “Is—“ she began. Hill was staring blankly past her shoulder. Natasha turned in time to see the rescue buoy speed by, bouncing on the choppy water. She looked at Hill. Hill looked back at her.

“Carter—“

“Yeah, I saw.” Carter was staring at the water, too. “I also saw those.” Her voice was a little too casual. She pointed at a dark shape, maybe seven feet long, cruising below the surface. It wriggled gently from side to side— a fish, or a very good imitation of one.

“Tell me this is an area where my education failed me, and Montana really _does_ have seven foot freshwater mountain sharks?” Natasha asked after a moment. 

No response.

“There’s another one,” Hill said. “And another.”

“How perceptive do you think they are? You think they’ll let us out?”

Hill shrugged. “If I’d gone to the trouble of rigging a flood and then releasing giant monster fish in it, I’d make them good for _something_.”

“Let’s find out.” Natasha put on her Widow’s Bites, then took a gun in each hand.

“Even you’re not sharkproof, Agent Romanoff,” Carter warned.

Natasha put her back to the wall and started to inch down the ledge. “I’ve never actually tested that theory.”

She made it across without the dark shapes appearing to notice, so Hill sent the uninjured trainees down the ledge. She followed; Carter stayed behind to undo the rope. Was she trying to prove something? If so, it was her problem.

Carter inched across, rope in hand, eyes on the water below. Natasha could have told her that was a bad way to do it, but she didn’t think Carter would welcome the constructive criticism--

Carter’s foot slipped in a wet patch. She threw her weight back towards the wall, and caught herself, panting. The coiling rope fell into the water.

The water surged, and a huge grey monster of a fish exploded upwards. It bit through the rope halfway up to the ledge. Carter, Hill, Natasha, and half a dozen trainees all had their guns in their hands, but before any could shoot, it fell back with a _splash_.

“… I’d say they’re good for something,” Hill said, after a stunned minute.

Natasha looked across at Carter. Her eyes were huge, and she looked frozen to the rock wall. She glanced back at them, saw Natasha looking— and narrowed her eyes, tilted her head up, and started moving again.

The trainees with medical experience were patching up Hill's people as best they could; the rest were milling about, looking scared and desperate. “Give me three of your best,” she told Carter.

Carter called out three names; Natasha called out three names of her own. She split them into groups of two, pairing each of her trainees with one of Carter’s. “Each group, pick a direction and walk as far as you can until you hit the water,” she ordered. “Do not— _do not_ — attempt to cross it. If you find a spot where the water disappears and it looks like you can cross, don’t do that either. Make note of anything unusual you see. Then come straight back.”

“You think we’re surrounded?” Olgov asked. “How is that possible?”

“The same way those sharks are possible.” They had five walkie-talkies: her two, Carter’s two, and Hill’s one. She gave each group one of them, and made sure they each had a pair of binoculars. “Report in at ten minute intervals.”

“Ma’am.” They stayed together until they got several hundred feet back from the edge; then they split up, one group going left, one right, and one straight ahead.

Hill returned from checking on her people in order to hear the tail end of the conversation. She kept her voice quiet: “If the water’s circulating-- we haven’t seen any of the equipment we lost. Or any… bodies.”

“They could have washed up somewhere.” Carter was watching the water, hands on her hips. “Or been plucked out. Or they could be held underwater by the weight of their packs.” She bit her lip. “They must be pumping the water through the path of least resistance. The others could be... stuck in the filter.”

Hill's expression went blank, but not before Natasha saw the moment of pain.

“We can talk to each other, but not to base,” Natasha said. “So there’s a jamming unit in between us and the nearest relay. Maybe whoever’s responsible is there as well.”

“What now?” Hill asked.

Natasha and Carter looked at each other. “If they’d just wanted to kill one group, they would have let the water go down and be done with it,” Carter said. “They’ve got a second punch coming. They’re keeping us here for something.” She shook her head. “We need more information. We need to get a message back to base.”

“Let’s assume they want to kill all of us,” Natasha said. “We weren’t in the canyon, so they couldn’t do it that way. If they come by air, we can force them down and steal their ship. If they come by land, they’ll need a bridge of some kind— we can take it from them.”

Carter looked skeptical. “Force them down how? With pistols?”

“We’ll think of something.”

“What if we’re standing on top of their base?” Hill asked. “If they’re going to go to all this trouble, why do it on a piece of land they don’t thoroughly control? They could have this whole area honeycombed with tunnels and riddled with cameras.” She looked around.

“For a trap like this, they needed land ringed on all sides by canyons,” Carter said. “There has to be a pump, or a channel, in each of those land bridges we saw this morning. Which means they'll have something else waiting there.”

“So we draw them out, and then kill them,” Natasha said. “But who hates S.H.I.E.L.D. enough to go to the trouble of pulling something like this off in Montana? Why didn’t we hear about it?”

“A lot of people hate S.H.I.E.L.D.” Carter smiled grimly.

Hill looked around again. “We’re sitting ducks out here, together like this.”

She was right. They split the remaining trainees up into eight groups, making sure each group had at least one competent person. Natasha watched as the groups melted into cover— occasionally, even successfully. Still, it was better than being out in the open.

The scouts radioed in. Two groups hadn’t seen anything unusual; one group had reached the nearest canyon, and was watching from cover. “There’s a way across,” Sykes murmured, “but it’s guarded. They’re hidden, but they’re there. Six people, it looks like, with big guns.”

“Which side?”

“Far side.”

“Where does the water go?” Carter asked.

“It disappears underground where the canyon ends.” Her voice went uneven. “One of the— guards—“ She swallowed audibly. “Is holding an arm. Just an arm. And it looks like the sleeves from one of our uniforms.”

Hill looked sick. Carter closed her eyes briefly. 

“Does it look cut, or is it jagged?” Natasha asked.

Carter stared at her in disbelief.

“Uh—“

“Cut,” Jamison reported after a minute. “I— I _think_ , I haven’t seen many—“ He swallowed, too. “Severed limbs. But it’s very, it’s very even. It looks like it happened in one stroke.”

“It takes a lot of strength and a big blade to sever an arm in one clean cut. Do any of them have machetes or sabers?”

“Romanoff,” Carter said.

“Uh— no,” Sykes said after a minute. “Not that I can see.”

“So maybe it wasn’t a person. Or a fish.” Natasha's eyes narrowed, and she felt the beginnings of a plan take shape. A terrible plan, but a plan.

“If they went through a giant propeller—“ Hill closed her eyes again. “There’d be nothing left of them at this point.”

“Probably not,” Natasha agreed.

“There’s some S.H.I.E.L.D. gear spread out on the far bank to dry,” Sykes said.

“Maybe they want to study it, or reverse engineer it.” 

The other two groups reported in: one was still walking, and the other had found the same situation as Sykes and Jamison, minus the severed limb and S.H.I.E.L.D. gear. That made sense: because of the direction of the current, anything— or anyone— would have hit the other site first. That indicated that the station Jamison and Sykes were observing was the first one after the cave.

“What about the sharks?” Carter asked. “Are they getting turned into sushi—“

Hill winced.

“— or what?”

“We’re not in position to see down into the water. We can—“ 

“No. Keep your cover.” Natasha twisted to look up the ridge.

“You’d be a sitting duck,” Carter warned.

“They know we’re here. What are they waiting for?”

“What do they want, if not us dead?” Hill added.

“Agent Hill, where did your group descend into the canyon?”

“Almost two miles back.” 

They had walked uninterrupted, which meant no land bridges, and therefore no guards, up to the cave. “I’m going to go up that side. They won’t see me there.”

Hill looked at her. “The side that’s a sheer drop to shark-infested waters leading to a pump that would instantly shred you?”

“Yeah, that one.” She stuffed the walkie-talkie into one pocket, and made sure her binoculars were secure in the other. “We have more rope, right?”

“You’re insane, Agent Romanoff,” Carter said.

“Save it for my biographer.” She stared at the rock face to find her best route.

Carter didn’t look happy. “I could order you to stay down here. You’re going to get yourself killed, and we need everyone alive to get out of this.”

Natasha tilted her head. “You don’t have that authority.”

“Yes, I do, I’m the senior agent.”

What the hell was with people pulling that on her lately? She could barely tolerate it from Clint. Carter wasn't Clint, and alarm bells were going off in the back of Natasha's mind. “And how were you going to _enforce_ your order, Senior Agent Carter?”

Carter glared at her over the head of Hill, who was sitting. Natasha folded her arms across her chest. Natasha could take both of them at hand-to-hand, and they knew it. But it would be way too easy for Natasha to actually hurt her, and they couldn't afford to show the trainees a disagreement like that.

Carter backed down, or at least stopped trying to loom so obviously. “Your leadership skills are shit,” she said bluntly. “You don’t go getting yourself killed if you’re not expendable.”

“Carter, you and I live very different lives.” Expendable? Natasha had spent most of her life being someone else’s cannon fodder. “I hauled another agent, semi-conscious, down a cliff just like this. I’ll be fine.” That cliff had had holds built into it, and they’d fallen a couple of times, but Carter didn’t need to know that.

From the cave where the agents had sheltered, she watched the other side of the canyon for a while.

“I don’t see any guards,” she radioed back.

“If I’d gone to all this trouble, I’d be guarding that side regardless,” Carter said.

“You think they’re spread thin?” Hill asked.

“That, or maybe Romanoff just can’t see them.”

Natasha watched the water, too. The splash line had gone down; the current was moving more slowly now. She saw some of the sharks standing still in the current, but she didn’t see any swimming upstream, and she didn’t see any that looked bloody. “Now I want sushi,” she murmured. She had her knives— if she could lure one into jumping out of the water…

_Mind on the job_. “Climbing,” she radioed in. She tied a crude harness, then tied the other end to the same rocky outcropping that they’d used as an anchor before. She had less to work with here than in North Carolina. But she didn’t fall. The Red Room had taught their slaves to climb by threatening them with worse things than a quick death by shark if they fell. It wasn’t raining this time, it wasn’t dark, and she wasn’t exhausted.

When she got to the very top, she looped the rope around the tallest spur to give herself something to lean back against. Then she pulled herself up a few more inches and peeked over the rock.

It was as the teams had reported: they were on a fairly large rock uprising, now an island, with three land bridges across the canyons. She couldn't make out the guards. “Has the last group radioed in again?”

“Yes, but we could barely hear them.”

“They're getting closer to the jamming.” That pair had gone in the direction of the S.H.I.E.L.D. base, which was near the only town of any size in the area. Whatever was jamming them was definitely in that direction. “I'm at the top.”

“See anything interesting?”

She watched the dark shapes in the water. “There’s some channel through for the sharks. They’re not turning around, and they’re not going through the pumps.”

“Pity, I’ll have to find something else for dinner,” Carter said.

Natasha studied the first choke point. Thirteen full-grown adults, plus their gear. “Our people didn't go through the pump.”

“Why not?” Hill demanded.

“There’s not enough blood. Sorry, Agent Hill,” she added.

Hill snorted. “You don’t need to baby me, Agent Romanoff. That’s _good_ news.” Pause. “It might have washed away.”

“Some of it would have stained the rock. There’d be—“ She pictured the many, many dead bodies she’d seen in her lifetime. “Flies. Maybe vultures.” The blood would dissipate fast, but how fast? Even she'd never exsanguinated thirteen people at one time. She didn't know exactly what quantity they were talking.

The pump would also have shredded all the solid matter, from people and packs, but there should have been _something_ left, and some of it would have floated. “And there’s no debris. Food packets, the other rescue buoys. Those things.”

“So they have them,” Carter said.

“Probably.” Come to think of it, Natasha didn’t even see the _first_ rescue buoy.

How did the pumps work? Was anything exposed at all, at which she could reliably aim? The angle was bad; she’d need a closer look. But if she could ensure that her little package stayed at the top of the water, then _maybe_ it would jam up against the inside of the pump. _If_ she knew how much time it had to work, and could get close enough to throw it. Too many variables.

“What do you recommend?” Hill asked.

Carter interrupted before she could respond: “I recommend you climb down.”

“I—“

“Just _do_ it.”

There was a suppressed urgency to Carter’s voice; either she was a great actress, or this was more than her continued objections to Natasha’s being up there in the first place. Natasha made the climb in reverse and checked the water below: nothing had changed. She walked carefully down the narrow ledge from the cave, and rejoined the others.

“Two of the trainees thought they saw metal across the canyon, right across from you,” Carter explained when she was down. “Could have been nothing-- but they both saw it.”

Natasha didn't protest; she'd already seen all there was to see.

“So, they have some of us,” Hill said, “and they have the rest of us bottled up, but they’re not doing anything with us. Yet.”

“They may have killed the others after they pulled them out,” Carter pointed out— gently.

Hill nodded once, a crisp nod. “Yes.”

“They might not have been expecting the rest of us,” Natasha said. “If they only saw your group, Hill, and then forty more of us appeared—“

Carter frowned. “Not sure how they could have missed the elephants we were leading. No offense intended, Hill.”

“None taken.” Hill swatted at a persistent bee.

“They could be waiting to pick us off one by one,” Carter suggested. “Or waiting for nightfall. Or both. By the way, the munchkins are getting antsy. What?”

“Munchkins?”

“Blame your partner, I picked it up from him. So.”

“If they’re spread thin,” Natasha said, “we might outnumber them, but—“

“But if these people are any good, our trainees might get massacred,” Carter finished grimly.

Natasha remembered Lewis’s whine that they would never have to do this in _real_ life, and just shook her head. “Then we need to take the jamming down and get in touch with base.” They could probably get someone across to the other side, but it was four days back by the straightest route.

“If the jamming drops off that severely from one side of the island to the other,” Hill said, “the source can't be far across the canyon.” She raised her hand to swat again—

Carter grabbed her wrist. “Nobody move.”

Natasha eyed her, weighing what she knew of her competence against the fact that Carter, too, made mistakes. But she had nothing to lose here by trusting her. “What…?” she murmured.

“That’s not,” Carter eyed the bee, which was still circling, “a native bee.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“My grandfather was an entomologist and I minored in invertebrate zoology. He used to take me collecting when I was a kid.” The corner of her mouth tilted up for a moment, then she went on. “There’s been plenty of time to study the native fauna on this trip, in _excruciating_ detail. That doesn’t belong. I don’t think it’s even American.”

“Floods and sharks and bees, oh my,” Hill muttered.

“I’m willing to bet any amount of money,” Carter continued, “that whatever happens to someone who’s stung by one of those is going to be awful.”

“Are there more?” Natasha, carefully, twisted around. She saw some other bugs in the area, but she couldn't tell what kind they were. She wasn’t sure she could distinguish them, like Carter had, even if they were right in front of her.

“We need to warn the trainees.” Moving with a fluid grace that even Natasha admired, Carter slid away from the bee and got to her feet without attracting its attention. “Romanoff, you start on the east side—“

“Right.” She mimicked Carter’s move and stood.

“Hill, stay here and... try to stay very still.”

Hill’s lips twisted. “Sounds like fun.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t shake. 

The trainees looked at Natasha like she were crazy when she went from group to group, ordering them not to swat the bees. Some of them weren’t holding up very well with the strain. Natasha had little sympathy. If they couldn’t handle surprises and danger, then they weren’t cut out to be S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. She just hoped they could keep it together long enough.

Her last stop was at the group guarding the wounded. One of the shocked agents was responding, slowly, to the trainee who was talking to him in a soft, gentle voice. Natasha gave the trainee a grateful look. She felt empathy, pity, for them, but she didn’t have time for that, either.

She jogged back to where Hill was still motionless, the bee still hovering around her. Even though the day was cool, there was sweat on her temple. But her breathing was slow, and she was _very_ good at holding still.

Carter came up from the other side. She’d grabbed a canteen from somewhere, and drained the last couple of swallows as she walked. “Good, that’s taken care of.” Without making any sudden movements, she moved the empty canteen through the air by Hill’s head, caught the bee inside, and screwed the lid on.

Natasha raised one eyebrow, impressed.

Carter smiled, and held the canteen up at eye level. “Yeah. This is definitely not a normal bee.”

“Carter!” 

Carter and Natasha both looked where Hill was pointing— at the quickly-growing cloud of bees converging on Carter.

“Oh fuck.” Carter ran for the edge of the island. Surely she wasn’t thinking of hiding underwater— Natasha followed her. So did the bees. Carter reached the edge and hurled the canteen across the “river.” It landed. The bees passed her without a second thought, and swarmed across, hovering around the canteen agitatedly.

“Alarm pheromones strong enough to rapidly disseminate through plastic,” Carter said, as they walked back. “Impressive.”

“Quick thinking.”

“Thank you.”

Hill stood, hands on her hips. “Sharks, bees, what next? Is this just the softening-up phase?”

“Yeah,” Carter agreed. “I’d rather not reenact a Hitchcock movie.”

“A what?”

“If you don’t know, consider yourself lucky, and _don’t_ watch it,” Carter told her. “We need to make our move before they send something worse. We know the probable direction of the base. We can take some of the best trainees with us, attack that bridge, and buy the others time to get away by one of the others. Together they should be able to take the guards. Then we find the jamming and destroy it.” She sounded uneasy at sending her trainees-- her responsibility-- to what could easily be their deaths.

“I can take out one of the pumps,” Natasha said.

They both looked at her. “How?” Hill asked.

Natasha rolled her sleeves up so they could see her bracelets. Carter’s eyes widened, and then narrowed speculatively. The beginnings of a deeply satisfied smile were tugging at her mouth.

“What are those?” Hill asked.

Natasha turned her wrist so the circuit closed, and the electricity crackled. “It’s called a Widow’s Bite.” Because she liked seeing the faces people made, sometimes, she added, “R &D made them for me after I killed hostiles with an old AED paddle.”

Hill’s expression did not disappoint. But she recovered quickly. “Looks like fun.”

“Hey.” Carter pointed. They both turned and looked. Another swarm was approaching, coming straight from the direction of the jamming. This swarm, too, bypassed them and went straight across the river, joining the others. 

“What happens if they figure out he can’t get out of there?” Natasha asked.

Carter looked at her. “… we should move.”

“The lowest point’s down there.” Hill pointed to the first pump past the cave. “The water will pile up down there once you knock the pump out. That will give the trainees more room to escape— they won’t have to engage the guards at all. They can go through the ravine.”

“So hit that one.” Carter pointed in the same direction. “It’ll clear the north for the trainees, and the guards closest to the base might run down to help.”

“We need a plan beyond that,” Natasha said.

“We could use Barton right about now,” Carter muttered. “His ridiculous arrows would come in handy. Have you seen the flowers one?”

“… the what?”

“He hasn’t shown it to you? He has an arrowhead that turns into a bouquet of flowers.”

Natasha stared at her, sure that the other woman was trying to make an idiot out of her. “I don’t think that would help here.”

“Once the pump is down, they'll send reinforcements,” Hill said. “If we have someone up high with binoculars, we can pinpoint their source.”

“I suggest we split up— once the water goes down, we can send half of us across the canyon and circle around from a direction they won’t be expecting, and the other half can distract them,” Natasha said. “Get in and knock out the jamming. Worst case scenario, some of the trainees will make it out and get in touch with base.”

Carter nodded. “Good plan. Let’s spread the word.”

They called the sentries back and went from group to group, getting them ready to move. They pulled out the best trainees and gave the others the walkie-talkies, telling them that their first priority was to get far enough out to call into S.H.I.E.L.D.

“If they have eyes up high, they’re going to see us moving,” Natasha warned. It would be dark soon, but they'd still show up on infrared.

“Can’t be helped,” Carter said. “Agent Hill. We need you to go with—“

“No.” Hill folded her arms across her chest.

Carter blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You were about to say some variation on ‘go with the trainees and get them to safety.’ With all due respect, Agent Carter, that’s bullshit. I may not have your years, or Agent Romanoff’s, but I’m still an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., and you’re not leaving me behind on this mission. I can’t out-shoot you, I can’t out-… anything Agent Romanoff, but there is one thing I can do better than either of you, and that’s run. I was the fastest woman in the state for three years in a row in college. If you try to send me away, you’ll never catch me.”

It was the longest thing she’d heard Agent Hill say at one time. Carter looked similarly surprised. Natasha shrugged. “Okay.” She wasn’t Agent Hill’s mother, and she wasn’t her supervisor. Technically, Agent Hill and all the rest of the trainees were under her and Carter’s supervision, now— but Natasha wasn’t so hypocritical as to deny someone the chance to hurt someone who’d hurt her. Vengeance made the world go round.

“If you go with the others, they'll have a better chance of making it out,” Carter said.

“That's not the end I'm concerned about. I'm pretty sure someone's going to get clear.”

“I won't force you,” Carter said after a minute. “You've certainly earned the right to make that call today.”

“Thank you.”

The trainees who were running left to be in position as soon as the water went down. Natasha hung back and let Carter and Hill handle briefing the others. Their people skills were better. She was perfectly capable of being a leader if she had to. Right now she didn’t have to.

“Romanoff will take—“

“I don’t need anyone.”

Carter looked surprised at the interruption. Natasha expected her to argue, but all she said was, “Are you sure?”

Natasha folded her arms over her chest and leaned back against the rock. The way the trainees were watching her was making her uncomfortable, and it wasn’t because the one was staring at her hips. It was because they were looking at her with… _awe_.

_You don’t know what I’ve done, and you don’t want to know_.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Carter said with a wry smile. “Romanoff will take the walkie-talkie. The rest of you will come with Agent Hill and I. Half of you will wait with me to storm the bridge. Half of you will go with Agent Hill. Once the water goes down, you’ll cross the canyon and come up behind the enemy.”

One of them raised a tentative hand. “How will we make the water go down?”

“I’m going to blow up the pump,” Natasha said.

All the trainees turned to look at her. And stared. “We… we brought explosives?” the same one asked.

“No.”

The mouth of the guy in the back was actually hanging open. Natasha stared back until he shut it with a snap.

Carter cleared her throat— pointedly— to get everyone’s attention. “Are there any questions?”

After a beat, the guy in the back raised his hand. “Agent Romanoff, are you _sure_ you don’t need any help?”

Natasha shrugged. “I could use you as a meat shield.”

But he didn’t hear, because at the same time, Carter snapped, “That’s out of line, Sanchez.” Natasha couldn’t see her face, but whatever look she was giving the kid, he blushed up to the roots of his hair. “Are there any _relevant_ questions?”

Nobody had any, but Sanchez was still sneaking looks at Natasha when he thought she wasn’t looking. 

They gave the trainees five minutes for an equipment check. None of them had much to check, but it was a good habit to get into, and it would probably calm their nerves. This was probably their first real fight.

“I don’t know how you put up with it,” Carter murmured as she handed Natasha the walkie-talkie.

“I’ve put up with worse.” It wasn’t that she didn’t even notice it any more— she always noticed, and it was one reason she so strongly preferred Clint’s company— but most of the time, she didn’t have to care. And some of the time, it was an exploitable weapon.

“Still.” Carter shrugged. “You know, some of the other female agents envy you? But I wouldn’t be you if you paid me a million dollars.”

“I wasn’t under the impression that you would,” Natasha said drily. ‘I hope you die horribly, and very soon,’ was unambiguous. Besides, if Carter fell in “want to be you/want to be with you” territory, Natasha was pretty sure she fell closer to the other side.

Carter might have blushed faintly. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes.”

“Then get in position.”

“Yes, _ma’am_ ,” Natasha said, because she wanted to share the pain. Maybe Clint was rubbing off on her. Maybe without him around, she felt compelled to keep up the smart-ass quotient on her own.

Carter looked at her. It wasn’t a bad approximation of Coulson’s “Oh God, why are you testing me” look. Natasha grinned, and jogged off.

She waited up a tree at the edge of the forest. Two men on the ground, four sitting on rocks higher up, looking bored. She pulled off her bracelet and fiddled with it until she was sure she could lock it on. She’d requested that as a feature in her new set, that R&D had replaced after Budapest, but they hadn’t come through yet. Maybe if she kept destroying them, she'd get what she wanted.

The trainees should be in position by now. She was surprised to find herself hoping they made it out, because that was a useless waste of emotion— her hope wouldn’t change anything. Most of them were irritating little snots, cheeky and naïve at the same time, but they didn’t deserve to die, not like this. 

Not that that ever made any difference in who _actually_ died.

She watched the sky for anything new, and listened. If whoever had trapped them here could bioengineer bees, why not mosquitoes? And was that swarm still on the other side of the river?

Her walkie-talkie beeped twice, then twice again: the go signal. She double-checked the bracelet. She had another shot at this if she messed up, but she didn’t want to lose both Bites at the beginning of the fight. She made sure it would stay on, took a deep breath, and tossed it.

The wind blew it straight into her target. Electricity hit metal, there was blue light, a soft _sizzle_ , and a much louder _pop-boom-thump_. Immediately, the water on one side of the bridge started to rise. The guards shouted— the four came down from the rocks. She jumped out of the tree, landing softly, directly across from the bridge. No one noticed her. There were five of them visible, now. She hadn’t heard any screaming, so the sixth must be trying the controls. The other five were pointing and shouting at the pump, or the rising water, or both.

The water level on the other side had already fallen enough that there was a narrow bit of dry land next to the bridge, and the water for several feet beyond was very shallow. She hoped that was enough to keep the sharks at bay _— hah_ , she really was turning into Clint— and, carefully, wriggled along that side of the bridge, holding onto damp rock and dirt, until she was across.

The guards were backing away from the edge— the water would flood a large portion of the bank before it ran over the bridge and started flowing again. It might even back up all the way back to the cave. Where _was_ the water coming from? They must have held it in reserve in an underground tank… worry about that later. 

One guard was behind the others. She killed him silently with a knife through his throat. No one noticed. She pulled herself over the edge, and killed a second guard. He had time to scream before he staggered backwards and fell into the water. One of the others ran forward to try to pull him out, but something huge lunged out of the water. The dying man's screams cut off abruptly, but the rest of the guards were still shouting.

_Damn it, I need to start carrying a silencer_. The noise they were making would have covered the noise of silenced gunfire, and her job would have been a lot easier. The longer they could keep the enemy in the dark about how many they were and where they were, the better.

“We have to get out of here! The water’s going to rise and those things are gonna come after us!”

She considered her options: let them desert their post and run back to base, revealing its location-- or kill them all now, quietly, before they could get a call out, and leave their bosses wondering what had happened. It wasn’t a tough decision.

In the dark, distracted by the flooding and the sharks, they never saw her coming. One got off a shout when she had to take a moment to pull one of her knives out of the corpse of his dead companion, and then he was dead, too. _I should have brought more knives_. She silently mimicked herself: _It’s a training exercise, Romanoff_. _You won’t need your throwing knives, Romanoff_. She shook her head. _You’re getting soft_.

She left the bodies in plain sight and waited for the last guard to come out. She couldn’t see him, but she didn’t hear him calling the base. Her walkie-talkie crackled, barely audible over the water. “Company,” Carter murmured.

She clicked the button twice to acknowledge. There— something moving in the rocks. She took aim with a knife wiped clean, threw, and listened to the body _thud_ against the ground. She retrieved the rest of her knives and slipped silently towards the last man she’d killed. That area had good cover for when the next batch arrived.

He was slumped down beside a little box set in the ground. He'd taken the cover off and been working on the wiring, apparently trying to restart the pump. The water was still rising, backing up towards the cave, but also towards her position. The rest of the canyon had to be nearly drained by now. She switched to the channel they’d told the trainees to use. “Status?”

“Two groups over the canyon.” She couldn’t recognize the voice, distorted as it was by panting. “Most of the guards went towards you.”

“Copy.”

She searched the body while she waited. They had their own walkie-talkies. She turned on the dead man's, listening to the chatter. “A team is on its way,” a female voice said. “Confirm, it was pump three?”

“We turned pump one off went the water drained.”

“Ditto for pump two. We sent most of our guards there as well.”

“Pump three, what’s your situation?” Pause. “Pump three, does anyone copy?” Pause. “Keep your eyes open, this could be a trap. Do we have eyes on the prey?”

The _what?_

“Uh— negative. They were inland, but we lost track of them in all the excitement.”

“ _Find them_. Fifty people can’t vanish that easily, even in the dark. The bees should have gotten to them by now, have you seen them?”

“No.”

A short pause. “We’re telling the hunters to hurry up.”

Natasha turned her own walkie-talkie to Carter’s channel. “Guys,” she muttered, “I tapped into their communications, they just called us ‘prey’ and they’re telling the ‘hunters’ to hurry up.”

She heard gunshots, through the air and over the comms. “ _Fucking_ hell,” Carter said. “We didn’t need to reenact the most dangerous game. They know we’re here. Out.”

_The most dangerous game?_

Natasha had time to get the same message to the trainees before she heard people coming. She listened— more gunfire from the probable direction of the base— enough to muffle any shots she made. She saw four men appear, and stop fast at the sight of the bodies. One of them raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth. She dropped him with a headshot, then two more, quickly. The fourth dove under cover and returned fire. She needed to kill him before he could report in— bullets weren’t the only weapons she had. She wriggled over rocks to the edge, found the nearest large boulder, and pushed it over the edge. A shout— it didn’t get him, but he jumped back, right into her line of fire. She shot him.

Unfortunately— “Beta Team, report.” Pause. “Was that gunfire by pump three?” Pause. “Can anyone see or reach Beta Team?”

Pause. “No, I heard gunfire— THEY’RE GETTING AWAY!”

Natasha heard gunshots directly across the island— the direction the trainees had taken.

“This is pump one,” a man said breathlessly after a minute. “A large group crossed the dry canyon under cover of dark— AH!” He screamed, and was silent.

“Pump one,” said the cool, female voice. “Pump one, come in.” Silence. “Pump two, report.” Silence. “Pump three. Beta Team.” Silence. “Delta Team? Be advised, there are hostiles near pump three. Engage with caution.”

“Copy.” Delta Team’s voice was low and gravelly. 

“Dispatching another team to pumps one and two now. Report only, pursuit is not a priority. The hunters can clean up.” Pause. “ETA on the hunters, ten minutes.”

Natasha grabbed the other walkie-talkie, and switched to the trainee channel. “Status.”

“We have contacted base. Repeat, we have contacted base. They only have three people on-duty. They’re calling for backup from whoever’s closest.”

“Good work. Now _run_. Whoever the hunters are, they’re coming for you. We’ll hold them off as long as we can— run, and don’t all go the same way.”

“We copy. Butler out.” The sign-off was oddly formal, and felt uncomfortably like a final transmission.

_Feelings have no place in battle_. One thing was going for them— their enemy didn’t appear to be tapping their transmissions. She relayed what she’d heard to Hill and Carter, but no one answered. She heard heavy gunfire from that direction. If the walkie-talkie had fallen into enemy hands, all they knew was that someone by pump three had picked up a radio from one of the dead men.

Delta Team— she needed to get past them, and ideally kill them on the way. She turned to watch for them, and almost missed them. They weren’t walking down below; they were very quietly, very stealthily climbing the slope, and they were already looking in her direction. And they had infrared goggles.

She was feet from the body of the last guard she’d killed. Hoping that the boulders would hide her heat signature for a moment, she wriggled down beside him. The outlines of the heat signatures would be fuzzy, and the corpse was bigger than she was— She got under it and arranged its limbs over hers. It was hard to breathe under the dead weight.

She turned his hand so gravity would keep the walkie-talkie in it, and bent the man’s arm towards his head like he’d been trying to listen when he’d died. His arms were enough longer than hers that she could just conceal her gun beneath his fingers. She listened. Pump one reported in two bodies, no sign of the other four. Pump two reported that they were taking heavy fire from multiple locations, unknown numbers, some of who were across the canyon.

Her own walkie-talkie crackled. She turned it off. She couldn’t risk Delta Team hearing it. “Delta Team coming up on the pump, no sign of hostiles,” came over the other walkie-talkie. She got ready…

Footsteps crunched on the rocks overhead. She forced herself to stay relaxed. If she tensed, the body could move, drawing attention she didn’t want. “I count nine bodies,” she heard, not over the walkie-talkie. “Should be ten, or we have a survivor.”

“Look— the water. I bet some of them are…” An audible pause. “Were in there.” 

“Check them all, make sure they’re ours,” said the gravelly voice. “Could be more than one body washed away.”

They split up— she'd hoped they would start with the ones closest to the water, but they had enough people that they didn’t have to do that. Silently, she tugged a knife from her wrist sheath. When the man approaching frowned and reached for his infrared goggles, she put the knife in his throat.

He gurgled and fell to the ground. The others whirled. But pandemonium didn’t erupt as she’d hoped. Delta Team scattered to cover. “Does anyone see what killed him?” the gravelly voice demanded.

“I didn’t hear a shot. Some kind of dart gun from the rocks above?”

“Do you see anything moving up there?”

“… no.”

“Jefferson, check the body,” the leader ordered.

This was bad— they were all under cover and looking in her direction. She didn’t dare move. Jefferson, reluctantly, moved out of cover and approached, gun at the ready—

She shot him. He crumpled to the ground. She heard a confused roar among the survivors— she sat up, moving the guard’s body in front of her—

“ _WHAT THE_ —“

She killed one more before they realized what was happening. Three down; three to go. Bullets thudded into her meat shield. They were spread out enough that someone would be able to get a good angle on her— one of them started to move towards the rocks, where he could climb up behind her and kill her easily— she grabbed the lighter that she’d stolen from the corpse, flicked it out, and shot it in mid-air. They all had their goggles on— the explosion, bright to her, would have blinded them. Two seconds later, she was under better cover at the side of the nearest rock wall, and she shot the man who’d been heading up. Two left.

A bullet caught a thin piece of rock. It exploded. Fragments went into her arm and her side, lancing her with fiery pain. She bit back a curse, and reloaded. She heard the gravelly voice calling for reinforcements, followed by, “Damn it!” Were they out of men?

She couldn’t get a good shot at the man closest to the water, but his arm was sticking out of cover. She shot him. She heard a muffled curse, and watched him stumble back, into better protection from her bullets. 

And to the water's edge-- with an arm dripping blood. Even though she’d been expecting it, the _splash_ startled her. A huge shape loomed out of the water, grabbed the bleeding man, and dragged him backwards. His terrified scream was piercing. The gravelly-voiced man bolted towards him— she shot him in the wrist. He dropped his gun. The shark had already dragged the other guard under.

She jumped down and advanced on the survivor, stopping to take a pair of infrared goggles off the nearest body. “What is this?” she demanded.

“I’m not going to tell you. Go ahead and shoot me.”

“Actually, I was thinking of dragging you a little closer to the water.”

He swallowed. She saw fear in his eyes. “We’re a business.”

“A business.” She was skeptical. “And this is your testing ground for bioengineered nightmares?”

He smiled. “Yeah. This is our hunting ground.”

“Who do you sell your creatures… to?”

“Various interested parties.”

“So you trap anyone who comes by to use them as test subjects?”

He eyed her, in such a way that she knew he was holding back information. 

“Those things can lunge. I’d only have to move you a foot or two. They might not get you cleanly at that distance, but that might actually be worse.”

“People pay to come out here and play the game,” he said quickly. “The most dangerous game. To train. We get them their prey.”

_The most dangerous game?_ “Who trains?”

He shrugged. “Private militias. Drug dealers armies'. Certain paramilitary organizations. I’m not going to give you our customer list even if you do feed me to the sharks.”

“Fifteen of our people were swept away. Are they inside your facility?”

“No. They’re dead.”

“They’re not.” She shot the ground inches from his head. He jumped. “Next time it will be your kneecap. Where are they?”

“You’re bluffing.”

She refrained from following through only because she wanted him able to walk. “I’ve killed fifteen of your people tonight. I know what it looks like when large numbers of people die. They didn’t go through the propellers. Where are they?”

Silence. He was panting, cradling his hand at an awkward angle.

She shot him in the kneecap. He screamed, and bit it off, glaring at her. The moon was bright enough that she could see him sweating. Contrary to popular belief, she didn’t enjoy this, but it didn’t bother her, either. _That severed arm was real_. She adjusted her gun. “I’m aiming at your other one now.”

He wriggled his good knee towards his other leg, protectively. “They’re down there,” he gasped. “You’ll never get them back. The hunters are coming.”

“What are you doing with them?”

“Testing.”

“Who are the hunters?”

He lunged off the ground, weight on the good leg— _sloppy, Romanoff!_ — she hadn’t noticed him plant his foot when he covered his knee— he cried out with the pain, but went for her gun hand— she brought her wrist around, electricity crackling—

And screamed when he grabbed her wrist and bent it some more so the current hit her own skin. Her fingers clutched involuntarily— he shoved her towards the water—

She stumbled, and her foot came down in the shallows. She saw the huge shadow— it moved faster than she could believe— she threw herself sideways, out of the water, and planted her wrist in its rough flesh. _It_ couldn’t bend her hand back on itself. The smell of charring flesh filled the air— it fell back into the water. She dove backwards and rolled. A bullet flew over her head. She came up right in front of the man, rolled again between his legs, and brought her foot into his good knee as she went. It went out from under him— his weight landed on his ruined knee— he screamed in agony. She cut it short by shooting him. He fell, and was motionless.

She stumbled back from the water’s edge and searched him. Nothing useful; she already had a walkie-talkie and the goggles. The radio was silent now. She pulled the goggles on, and scanned the area, still panting. Nothing. She stumbled back and slumped against a large rock, shaking. The back of her hand was burned, and her fingers were twitching.

She remembered to turn her own walkie-talkie back on. She heard Carter’s voice. “This is Romanoff, I copy,” she gasped.

“The hell have you been?”

“Hiding under a corpse. Getting electrocuted.” She drew another breath, forcing it to go in and out evenly. “Pump three still clear. Sixteen down now. Think they’re out of reinforcements. You?”

“We found the front door and forced them to retreat. Now we’re sitting on them.”

“They have our people down there. They’re using them for testing. And ‘the hunters’ are coming. What the hell is ‘the most dangerous game’?”

“People hunting other people.” That was Hill. “It’s from an old story.”

“What about the trainees?”

“Last I heard, they were clear and they’d scattered.”

She could breathe easier now, and the shaking had stopped. She moved far enough up to scan the area again: still nothing coming. All the action was past pump two, now. She started to pick her way in that direction.

“Do we sit here, try to stop the hunters, and look for a chance to get our people out,” Hill asked, “or get out while we can?”

“We wait,” Carter said firmly. They went off the air.

Natasha came over a ridge, and saw an open space sloping down to the second land bridge. There were cooling bodies on the ground, but she couldn’t tell whose uniform they were wearing. The goggles were hurting more than helping, now. She took them off and moved closer in.

She zigzagged and got a good look at the area, looking for anyone else moving, looking for the ‘hunters.’ The ten minutes were nearly up. She found the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents fairly easily by listening to the background noises that came over the walkie-talkies as they tried to check in with the trainees. But she didn’t want to get shot, so she raised her own walkie-talkie and murmured, “At your eight.”

She was close enough that they could hear her voice through the air, too. Carter jumped, then lowered her gun, eyes narrowed. The two women were crouched behind a massive downed tree trunk— it must have been hardy, to grow for so long in the rocky soil. She joined them, and sat down gingerly.

Hill looked her up and down. “You look like you had a fun night.” She went back to watching intently.

“Sixteen? Really?” Carter added.

“I don’t lie about my body count.” She’d never needed to. “Where are the others?”

“We lost two.” Hill’s voice was grim. “The other four are over there.” She pointed to a rocky outcropping. Natasha couldn’t see the trainees— good, they were well-hidden. “They’re watching the other direction. For the hunters.”

Natasha checked the walkie-talkie she’d taken off the dead guard, cycling through all the channels in case they’d switched. But there was static on all of them. If everyone outside was dead, they didn't need to use the channels.

Carter glanced down. “That’s not one of ours.”

“No.” 

“Who are these hunters?”

“Private militias and paramilitary organizations. In general.”

“How do you know that?”

Natasha looked at Carter, expression flat, and let her silence be the answer. “Whoever they are, they’ve been held up.” If there were enough of them that they’d been confident about taking on fifty partially-trained agents, they’d have a hard time sneaking up. “Where’s the front door?”

Carter pointed. Natasha followed her pointing finger to a circular patch, down below, that looked just a little too natural. She nodded, and scanned the area again with the infrared goggles.

Hill reached to her far side and handed something to Natasha: one of the packs, kept through the fighting. Natasha looked at it blankly.

“Your arm.”

Right. She bandaged herself. The night dragged on, cold and anti-climactic. But coming down from the adrenaline rush, and saving her mental and physical energy, was something she’d learned a long time ago. She settled with her back to the tree trunk, gun in one hand and a knife in the other, and trusted that they’d wake her if something happened.

Something happened, but it wasn’t what she was expecting. “You should have told me you’d lost your memory,” Carter murmured.

Natasha opened her eyes, and looked at her, not bothering to relax her grip on her weapons. “What?”

“At Thunder Bay. I didn’t know you’d broken out of somewhere. Didn’t know about the brainwashing.”

Natasha cycled through the response that would best communicate, _Do not ever bring this up again_ , and settled on, “It’s fine.” This explained why Carter had stopped being so openly hostile to her, better than Natasha’s previous theory. She looked past Carter, to Hill— not only did she not want to have this conversation, she didn’t want to have it in circumstances where anyone would remember. One person knowing was bad enough, two would be worse.

Apparently she wasn’t as subtle as she thought. “I’m not listening,” Hill said.

Natasha snorted, but closed her eyes again.

But Carter didn’t take the hint. Maybe Natasha needed to make it more broad. Or more _pointed._ “I hated your guts for a while, which was… confusing…”

Natasha remembered the search at Thunder Bay. “Carter—“ 

“No! I mean. Just— but Barton really liked you, I couldn’t figure out why, and I wanted to be wrong. So I pulled your file.” Pause. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Natasha didn’t care if people were interested in her as long as they left her alone. She wanted to be done with this. “If you want to make people uncomfortable, you should take lessons from your old second-in-command. Hewitt.”

Carter snorted. After a minute, she continued: “I read it. Figured out I’d been wrong, about you—“

“You really weren’t.” 

“— shut up. And had to rethink some things. So.” She took a deep breath. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“If you think you _owe_ me anything, let it be changing the subject.” Natasha had been, and still was, a cold-blooded killer, and she had killed Carter’s friend, even if she didn’t remember why. But if Carter wanted to wallow in her own delusions, Natasha wasn’t going to expend the energy to convince Carter she was wrong. That wasn’t her concern.

She closed her eyes again, and made her breathing deliberately slow and even. If Carter actually fell for the idea that Natasha was sleeping deeply, then she was stupider than Natasha thought— but if she didn’t, it was a pretty broad hint.

She did doze, listening for the crack of twigs, the sound of a helicopter, or even the birds and crickets going quiet.

“They’re—“ Hill said.

Natasha’s eyes were instantly open.

“No— no. Sorry. Sorry.” She sounded genuinely ashamed.

“Better a false alarm than an unexpected attack,” Natasha told her.

“You’re doing well,” Carter added.

“Agent Romanoff, could you pass me one of the bars from that bag?” Hill asked.

Natasha reached inside, and frowned as her fingers touched something unexpected. “Are these _grenades_?”

“Oh, yeah, we took them off the dead guards.” Carter shrugged as Natasha kept digging. “I think they were emergency protection against the sharks.”

“Mmm.” Natasha smiled. Explosives were always a good backup plan. “I don’t think there’s anything in here.”

“Must be the other bag.” Hill sounded subdued.

Natasha passed across a very squashed meal bar from her side pocket; the action reminded her of Clint, and she wondered where he was, and what he was doing.

“Did you ever get any of it back?” Carter asked after a while.

Natasha looked over at her, about to ask ‘get any of _what_ back,’ but she thought she knew, and if she asked, Carter might answer.

But Carter wasn’t dissuaded by her silence. “Your file said something about an incident in Amsterdam, but the details were above my classification level.”

Natasha tried to figure out a nonlethal, non-damaging way to explain just how she felt about people who read up on her and then tried to discuss the contents of her file with her. She needed Carter alive and well, at least for now. Nothing was coming to mind.

Apparently it finally sank in that something was wrong. “I was just trying to be fair to you,” Carter said, “when I read—“

“They’re definitely moving,” Hill reported. “You want to talk about your feelings some more, or you want to blow shit up?”

Natasha caught Carter’s eye as she reached for the binoculars. Carter grinned. Natasha felt herself smile in response. “The second one,” Carter said, as she grabbed the binoculars from Hill. Natasha pulled her goggles down over her face. No heat signatures below— but if she looked hard, she could see something moving down there.

“Could be a trap, to distract us while the hunters get here.”

“If this is the only shot we have to get our people, we’re taking it.”

“Seven of us pulling out fifteen of them isn’t good odds,” Natasha said.

“You just killed sixteen people. We’ll be fine.”

“There’s a difference between killing people, and hauling unconscious bodies out of enemy territory.”

“Then we’ll leave _you_ to hold them all off, and make multiple trips,” Carter retorted. “I’m not leaving my people in there to be experimented on. I would think you of all people would sympathize, Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha stared at her, expressionless, until Carter frowned, and blinked, forced to acknowledge that something was wrong. “This is the last time you will ever mention that.” Natasha’s voice was flat.

“I, uh… I’m going to hail the others.” Hill broke the tension. Carter nodded. Natasha didn’t stop staring at her. _Don’t you_ ever _use my file against me again_. How many others had done the same? Looked her up and drawn their own conclusions?

Finally she turned away, picked up the binoculars, and watched the circular spot at the bottom of the slope, pointedly keeping her eyes on the movement. The silence dragged on. She was okay with that, except it meant that Hill wasn’t back yet. She put down the binoculars and checked her weapons. She switched her clip out for a full magazine, and tucked the half-empty one at the small of her back. If she needed it, she’d remember that it was half-empty. She tightened in their sheaths all the knives she still had on her, and adjusted her remaining Bite until it was as unlikely as possible that someone could turn it against her again.

“I’m sorry,” Carter said finally. “It… was not my intention to offend you.”

Natasha tightened down the straps of all her holsters and sheaths, and debated how best to answer. _You’ve seen what she does with private information. Don’t give her more_. “I will say this once,” she said, as Hill’s soft footsteps approached. “The Red Room made me. I remade myself. Don’t confuse the two.”

Carter nodded. “Understood.”

“They have the other walkie-talkie and half the grenades,” Hill reported. “They’ll go on our sign—“ She frowned, and looked up.

“Down!” Carter shoved Hill back into deeper cover, looking back— Natasha was already following. They huddled together under the narrow rock shelf, trying not to breathe, trying to track the sound of the helicopter.

Helicopters. “Three,” Natasha murmured. “Large. Troop transport, not surveillance.”

“There’s a flat rock shelf a quarter of a mile south,” Hill murmured back. “I bet they’re landing there.”

“Binoculars?”

Natasha passed them to Carter, who was on the south end. She squinted, hard—

The crackle of the walkie-talkie startled them all. “— Agent Romanoff, Agent Carter, this is Agent Sitwell, do you copy?”

“Agent Sitwell, this is Agent Hill, we copy. Where are you?”

“Look up!”

The helicopters got louder; one of them loomed directly overhead, and four men slid down ropes to the ground, before the helicopter gained altitude and circled back. Three of them were soldiers; Sitwell was in his usual suit, but was only a second behind them getting to the ground. The soldiers immediately spread out to do recon. “We have twenty-five men, and we sent another helicopter to pick up the trainees. Sorry we’re late,” Sitwell said. “We had to dogfight with a couple of helicopters full of arms dealers first.”

Natasha blinked. “Late?”

“You called base five hours ago,” Sitwell said. “When the trainees got through, we were already on our way. What’s the situation?”

“We have fifteen inside,” Carter said. “We’ve killed— Romanoff, mostly, has killed— all their people outside. They’re hunkered down in some sort of bunker, but we think they’re about to come out-- there's some sort of mechanism moving down there. We have four on the other side of the ridge. Two are dead. The others— got out.”

Sitwell nodded spoke briefly into his walkie-talkie. Then: “We took off with some imaging equipment R &D wants us to test. It may help us see into the bunker. The helicopter will do a pass while we get into position.” He looked them over. “We have enough people to—“

Natasha stared at him flatly. Carter looked at him with disdain. Hill spoke for the three of them. “We’ll share with you, if you don’t get greedy.”

Sitwell’s eyebrows went up, and he looked at her for a minute. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared back. 

“All right,” he said. “You’ve earned your pick of positions.”

“Damn straight we have,” Hill snorted. Natasha suppressed a smile.

Sitwell looked like he was torn between surprised respect, and smiling. “Give us three minutes to get into position.”

Carter decided to stick with Hill— watching out for her, probably— and Natasha decided, a little surprised, to stick with both of them. They were both good. Together, they might make up for the lack of Clint— not because they were _bad_ , but because there were very few people who could keep up with her like he could. She wanted to see what the three of them could do together.

Sitwell refused to let them go in first. Natasha hung back while he, Carter, and Hill argued about the fact that the soldiers had armor and they didn’t, and he didn’t have any extras. Finally Carter and Hill subsided— more out of professionalism, Natasha suspected, than anything else. “Get to our people,” Sitwell said. “Keep them safe until we get there. They’ll recognize you; they may not recognize us.”

_Especially not depending on the ‘testing’_. But she didn’t say it out loud. It had probably occurred to all of them already— and she wasn’t about to remind Carter of the contents of her file.

Sitwell’s team had brought heavier explosives than they'd taken off the guards. Natasha watched them attach them to the roof of the bunker, at the circular opening they’d identified earlier, and at another site that the imaging equipment had identified as a good target. She briefed Sitwell quickly on the sharks and the bees. “They could have worse in there,” she warned. She wasn’t comfortable storming an underground facility where they didn’t know the layout or even how many people were inside. Another wave of soldiers had landed in the meantime, but they could still be overwhelmed.

It wasn’t much different from what she’d done outside of Budapest, but the difference was that the soldiers weren’t her. And one agent, working alone, was actually pretty hard to hit; an advancing wave of the enemy was a target-rich environment.

But Sitwell’s reasoning was sound. Their situation wouldn’t get better with time; the bunker wouldn’t become easier to crack. Waiting would only give the people inside more time to prepare— or escape. Sitwell had scouts out surveying the area, trying to find any other entrances into the facility, but she wasn’t sure they were going to come up with anything in the time they had.

So she kept quiet about her objections. They got the explosives in place; one of the scouts reported that she’d gotten a faint blip off the phone of one of the missing agents, due west. The agents might not be with their gear any more, but it was a start.

“Is this your first door?” Carter was asking Sitwell. Now that Natasha looked closely, he did look a bit jittery.

“Yes.” He straightened his cuffs and assumed a very serious, intense expression. At least he hadn’t picked up Coulson’s habit of wearing sunglasses at night. Coulson could pull it off… usually. Sitwell wasn’t there yet.

“Just keep your head down and your eyes open, and you’ll be fine.” Carter looked like she was enjoying the chance to give him advice. “Probably.” She touched the scar on her neck.

“Thanks.” If Sitwell was trying to make that sound sarcastic, he only got it halfway. He left for the other blast site.

Natasha was more concerned with Hill. She was staring at the bunker, eyes narrowed, mouth compressed. “I’m probably the last person who should be saying this,” Natasha said, so softly no one else could hear, “but vengeance can be dangerous if it makes you lose control.”

Hill looked up quickly, but didn’t argue with Natasha’s assessment. “So you never practice vengeance, Agent Romanoff?” she asked after a minute.

Natasha smiled slightly. “I make sure I’m aware of the risks first.”

Hill nodded.

They blew the bunker. The explosives made gaping holes in the rock, revealing two dark spaces underneath. The soldiers tossed stun grenades inside; then they were moving. Natasha yanked her goggles down and swung herself over the lip of the hole, dropping and rolling out of the way of the surprised soldier whose place she’d taken. _She’d_ never agreed to stay back.

The next soldier down cracked a chemical light stick, showing ruined stairs and corridors branching off in four directions. She listened to the echoes as more soldiers came through the hole, and determined that one of the corridors was shorter than the others. That was probably the one running down to the canyon.

Carter dropped through, followed by Hill. “Thanks for waiting,” Carter said drily.

“You’re welcome.” To get the sharks in the water, there needed to be a connection between the bunker and the canyon, even if the water had been held elsewhere. Did that mean that all the labs were in that direction? She eyed the corridor. She didn’t see anything in the infrared, but they could easily be hiding behind the doors. It would be what she would do.

“Hmm.” Carter took out her phone. Natasha saw the contact she selected: _James Lín_. She sent a text: _Incoming_.

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“Whoever’s with them already knows we’re coming. Maybe we can get help from the other agents. Or at least give them a little hope.”

Natasha looked up. By the dim light of the glow tube, she could see the air vent: too small to climb through. Damn. 

Gunfire came from the corridor leading to the canyon. They didn’t have a lot of time. As Natasha studied the walls and the ceiling, looking for another way in, Hill bent a cold light _almost_ to the point of illuminating. Then she hurled it down the corridor.

A bullet hit it midair. It came on and burst at the same time, sending glowing liquid spattering along the corridor. By the light, they could see that several of the doors were cracked open. The gunfire stopped, and the silence that followed was deep and pointed.

“This sounds like a problem explosives could solve,” Hill murmured, very softly, as all three of them shifted back from the corridor mouth.

Natasha nodded. “Blow into one of the rooms halfway down—“

Hill shook her head. “That one,” she said after a minute of studying the ceiling with narrowed eyes. She pointed. “There are weight-bearing beams running through the ceiling. You don’t want to hit any of them. That one.”

They both looked at her.

“Engineering major.”

“It looks like about thirty steps down, and five to the left,” Carter murmured. “We can’t be sure our people aren’t in there. But it’s not as far as the blip from the phone.”

Natasha looked over her shoulder at their entrance. “This didn’t do too much damage coming in. Let’s hope the other one’s the same, if they’re in there.” Without waiting for either of them to volunteer, she stood, nodded to the rear guard, jogged to the hole letting moonlight in, jumped, grabbed the lip, and swung herself up. As soon as she hit the ground, she found a point on the horizon in the direction the corridor was running, and memorized it.

There was another rear guard waiting outside— they almost shot her as she appeared. She gave them a flat, disdainful look. “Where are the extra explosives?”

“Uh— back at the helicopter, uh—“ One guard touched her earpiece and spoke into it. Then she frowned at Natasha. “Agent Sitwell didn’t authorize you to use those.”

“I was blowing things up when Agent Sitwell was coloring in primary school,” Natasha said flatly. The guard looked confused— understandably so, because Natasha didn’t look much older than her real age. That Natasha herself had been of an age to be coloring in primary school in a better life was a minor detail that didn’t bear mentioning. “Are they coming here, or am I retrieving them myself?”

“Uh— they’re on their way— ma’am.” The guard looked intimidated and out of her league. “I really should clear this with a senior agent—“

_Senior agent, bullshit._ “Agent Carter’s on board with this. I’m acting under her orders.” Carter would probably laugh at the idea that Natasha would take orders from her, but it was enough for the guard, apparently.

Natasha helped herself to some of the more benign supplies. Another soldier came running up, this one also obviously young enough that Natasha could understand why she’d been put at the back. She handed over a heavy crate. “Do you know how to use these, Agent…?”

“Romanoff.” She looked in the crate. “Yes. Deploy bombs, bombs go boom.”

The first guard looked pained.

“Thank you for your assistance.”

“Ma’am,” the first soldier sighed.

She retraced her steps to directly above the corridor mouth, then walked thirty paces towards her point on the horizon, and took five steps to her left. She deployed what she needed and carried the rest of the crate several meters back towards the guards. Then she pulled down her infrareds, armed the bombs, and ran like hell for cover.

As soon as it went off, she reversed her steps and ran towards the explosion, dodging rubble that was still falling. The gaping hole was at about the right place. She grabbed the edge and swung herself down.

Her first fleeting impression, by the moonlight coming in through the roof, was _This is a lab_. A lab belonging to the same people who had made the sharks and the bees. _Fantastic_.

She got to the floor without getting shot and without landing on anyone. People were groaning in pain-- had they noticed her? She flattened her back against the end of the bench, and looked around. Was there any nearby experiment that could kill her immediately? _Why do I always end up in the underground bunkers of mad scientists?_

There were definitely _worse_ ways to live, she knew from experience. She rolled to the end of the next aisle and looked around the corner. It was clear. She wriggled on her stomach towards the other end of the room— if she’d been holding this building, she would have had all the defenders near the doors, not close enough to be taken out with a stun grenade in the corridor, but close enough to be able to fire into it. And, yes—

Someone appeared around the end of the bench, standing. They took a second too long to look down and see her— She put a knife through their throat. They fell to the ground without a sound. 

A walkie-talkie crackled. “— explosion in lab Five, no reported intruders in that direction—“

_Shit_ , it was the one attached to her belt. _Careless._

“Frank?” someone called softly. “That you?”

She made a masculine sounding groan, followed by a cough. 

“Does anyone see Caroline?” A new voice said.

“I think I’m staring at her feet.” Pause. “They weren’t there right after the explosion…”

That man sounded suspicious. She didn’t have much time. From their voices, she’d gotten a good idea of where they were in the room. _Divide and conquer_. She slithered silently backwards, and went after the suspicious man.

She broke his neck. He never saw her coming. But they’d regrouped— someone turned around, and saw her—

“Hey!”

They outnumbered her five to one, but they were scientists, not soldiers. Unfortunately, they were scientists surrounded by their own creations. She narrowly ducked a beaker thrown at her face. She tackled the nearest person and used them as a shield, rushing forward to close with the others. Someone tried to shoot around her hostage and shot him. The force shoved them both backwards. Someone gasped in horror— Natasha took advantage, and put another knife through another throat. The remaining three surged forwards— brave, if not smart— she grabbed the nearest piece of equipment from the bench top and flung it hard, still holding her hostage with her other arm. Her aim was better than theirs. It hit one of them square in the head. She threw her last knife— it _missed_ , damn it, she couldn’t see well enough for this— she pivoted around her captive, planted a kick solidly in the stomach of the nearest person still up, punched them on their way down, turned to bring her wrist against them, and electrocuted them.

But she’d lost track of the last— _sloppy!_ — she dropped, instinctively. Her ears hadn’t failed her. The woman collided with her meat shield as she rolled to the side. Natasha electrocuted her, too. Then no one was moving. Her captive fell on top of the dead woman, and from the limpness of his body, the way he’d sagged against her, he wouldn’t be getting back up.

The room was clear without a shot fired on her part— but that one gunshot had been loud. She crept silently to the door, pulled the cold light from her belt, cracked it, and tossed it into the hall.

Footsteps— the sound was muddied, she couldn’t tell which way they were coming from— but definitely out in the corridor. On the shiny kickplate at the bottom of the door, she could just see movement in the room across the hall—

She ducked as they exploded out towards her. Flesh hit flesh— shouts, _rage_ — if that was Carter and Hill, then they needed backup— she shoved through the door—

— to find Lín, Jones, and two of the trainees standing over three unconscious, or dead, scientists.

Lín turned quickly, and then the other three did— she saw that they were unarmed. There was a second where she thought they were going to go for her. _What did they do to them?_ Then she saw recognition in Lín's eyes, and the other three similarly relaxed.

She pulled him backwards into the room she’d just left. The other three followed. They’d be out of the line of fire there. After a quick glance to make sure everyone was still dead or down, she asked, “Status?”

“We overpowered our guards.” Lín was cradling his left arm. Even in the dim light, the trainees looked like they’d been crying, and Jones just looked like a sleepwalker. “The rest are back there.” He pointed. “Scotts— she lost her arm.”

“Yeah, we saw. Hostiles between here and there?”

Lín looked at her reproachfully. She didn’t know if it was for her comment about Scotts’s arm, or for her implication about their prowess. “We took them out.”

A scuffle in the corridor— she pushed past the trainees in time to see Hill tackle a man twice her size to the ground and sit on him. Carter was holding another at gunpoint. “They were in the next room,” Carter said. “Everything between the front door and here is clear.”

“Our people are at the end of the corridor.” She stepped out of the doorway to let the other four out. “Let’s get them out.”

They sent Lín, Jones, and the two trainees on ahead to get everyone else ready to move. Carter went into the room Natasha had just left, and returned with rope. Her eyebrows were raised. “Sometimes I do forget you’re a professional assassin.”

“There were only seven of them.”

Carter looked at her.

They tied up the two huge men, shoved them into the same room, and tied the door shut. At the far end of the corridor, their people were stumbling out of a reinforced door. Natasha felt a surprising sense of dread as they came closer— she was _afraid_ , at the prospect of finding out what had been done to them. _That’s not what they need_.

Most of them were ambulatory. Two were unconscious, one couldn’t stand, and Scotts took two steps and passed out. One of the tallest trainees caught her, then picked her up, careful of her bandaged stump. Natasha wasn’t used to carnage that had a face on it. She would deal with that later.

They shepherded everyone back to the center of the bunker. The intermittent gunfire had died down. Still, there was no reason to be careless. Natasha took point and watched for anything coming down the corridors as they got everyone up. First everyone who could climb went up a makeshift ladder; then the soldiers above started rigging up a sling.

Her walkie-talkie crackled. “Bunker is—“ Sitwell said. A loud snarl came over the channel. “ _Shit!_ ” A loud crash, then silence.

Carter, trying to help the man who couldn’t stand into the harness, looked up quickly. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Natasha grabbed a second gun from the nearest dead body. 

“It’s coming from that way,” Hill said tightly. She pointed to one of the corridors they hadn’t stormed or blown up. She was right— there was a faint clicking noise that quickly grew louder, then very loud panting—

The thing that exploded out of the darkness might once have been a dog before it was grown to the height of a man. It had glowing green eyes and unnaturally long teeth— it skidded to a halt, and growled, low, sniffing the air.

“Get them out of here,” Natasha said tightly, standing her ground between it and the ladder. There was still another trainee, and Scotts--

_There have been far too many evil scientists in my life lately._

More footsteps— she couldn’t turn to look. Whoever it was wasn’t walking very well. “Take up flanking positions!” Hill snapped. From her voice, she was also between the dog and the two wounded. In Natasha’s peripheral vision, she saw someone move across the room, then back behind her. The dog turned, circling, trying to get around them. It could probably smell Scotts's blood. She could just shoot it— but she wasn’t sure one shot would take it _down_ , even right between the eyes. If it didn’t, and the thing attacked before the two wounded were safe—

The dog passed the ladder. It lunged, diagonally, across her. She lost the shot at its head, hit its flank, emptied her gun, then tackled it in desperate hopes of bleeding its momentum off. 

“Electrocute the fucking thing!” Carter called from somewhere above her. She barely heard, lost in a tangle of hot foul breath, and sharp claws tearing open her uniform and her skin— the dog rocked with some impact, but still didn’t _die_ — it was crushing her, trying to scrabble towards Scotts— she was holding on desperately to its torso— she turned her wrist and jammed the electrodes into its flesh, through the fur—

It fell across her. A piteous howl, and a human scream. “FUCKING hell, Romanoff!” Worry about that later—

Two shots, and the dog stopped moving.

When she was sure nothing was trying to kill her, she wriggled backwards out from under the thing. It was definitely dead. Carter was sitting half-astride it, looking pained—

Oh. Natasha winced. “Sorry.”

— and Hill was halfway up the ladder, Scotts nowhere in sight, the feet of the unconscious trainee on her shoulder, still holding her gun. Hill looked down at the dog. “Poor thing,” she said softly.

Natasha looked at her. It was the most compassionate thing she’d ever heard Hill say. What was it like, to live a life where you could automatically empathize with things that had tried to kill you, even though you’d never been in their position? Natasha knew what it was like to be made into someone else’s tool, but she also had no compunctions about killing it. She would not risk her life for pity.

_Are you sure about that?_

Sitwell stepped out of the cross-corridor, looking worse for the wear. He’d been raked by the same claws Natasha had. He stopped when he saw them, and his eyebrows went up.

“Jasper, if you make a Charlie’s Angels joke, I swear to God I will hurt you.” Carter swung her leg off the dog and staggered to her feet.

Sitwell visibly swallowed. “I wasn’t even thinking about it.” He frowned. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I was electrocuted. Again.” Carter gave Natasha a dirty look. “Is the rest clear?”

“Yes. We have another team coming in to sweep and do forensics. Once the helicopters come back, we can move out.”

Hill climbed back down the ladder, this time without any burden. “Come back? Where are they?”

“One is heading straight back to base with the wounded. The others are retrieving the trainees.”

Carter looked around. “So we’re stuck here?”

“For the time being, yes.”

Natasha didn’t blame Carter for being uneasy. Who knew what else was lurking out here? “There may be some left alive in the room we blew up.”

Sitwell looked pained. “Blew up?”

“I blew up,” Natasha corrected herself. “I blew the roof in.”

Sitwell rubbed the bridge of his nose, then adjusted his glasses. He wasn’t as good as Coulson at keeping his calm. Coulson only made voluntary gestures like that when he was very, very irritated.

If you wanted something done well, you had to do it yourself. Natasha didn’t want to leave checking the bunker to a S.H.I.E.L.D. soldier, only for a survivor they’d missed to unleash something horrific. So she staggered to her feet, hiding a wince at the pain across her ribs. “Do you want prisoners?”

Carter looked horrified. “You can’t just—“

“Yes, bring back any survivors alive,” Sitwell said calmly.

Natasha reloaded and headed down the corridor. Inside the room with the dead bodies, the two men were awake. They shouted obscenities at her as soon as they saw her. She ignored them and checked everyone else for a pulse. The man she’d brained with the lab equipment had a weak pulse. She’d have to carry him. She tied his hands and feet, slung him over her shoulder, unbound the legs of the two men, and forced them to walk side-by-side, ahead of her, at gunpoint. “I will shoot you if you try to escape,” she warned. “You don’t have anywhere to run.”

They didn’t try it, which was a welcome break. Maybe they’d telepathically heard her shoot that other guy's knee. And maybe she needed more sleep and less time supervising whiny trainees if she was thinking things like that. _You’re getting soft, Romanoff_. She hadn’t even been a full day without sleep; the cumulative sleep deprivation of the training exercise hardly counted.

But she knew she wasn’t, really. She could push through just as effectively now as in the Red Room days. The difference now was that she allowed herself to notice her own status, her condition, her _preferences._ As opposed to her sadistic former masters, the person running the show now cared about how she was doing— even about her _Feelings_ — as something beyond just an indicator of her mission readiness.

And that person was her. She never got tired of thinking about that.

Sitwell had sent some of the soldiers to clear other parts of the bunker. He told them to pull out and seal it up; they’d wait for transport upstairs. She certainly wasn’t going to argue. The idea of “the creeps” was ridiculous and unprofessional, but if it _hadn’t_ been-- well, she didn't like the bunker.

She sat where she could keep an eye on the prisoners, in case the soldiers guarding them got sloppy. Hill turned up in front of her, holding out a medkit. “Figured you might need this.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Thanks.” She retreated to a rock and pulled up her top, trying to assess the damage. She hoped she was far enough away that she wouldn’t become the center of attention. She didn’t need that, ever, and especially not now. Sitwell would probably not react as well as Coulson if she kicked the ass of one of his men for staring at her as she tended her wounds.

Someone dropped down in front of her— between her and the rest of the group. Good for her privacy, bad for surveillance. “Is there burn cream in there?” Carter asked.

Natasha looked up at her, considering.

Unaccountably, Carter flushed bright red. “All I want is the burn cream, Romanoff, don’t look at me like that.”

_What?_ Natasha raised an eyebrow and continued to stare. “I was just going to ask you to move a few inches to your left.”

Carter twisted to look over her shoulder. Her mouth formed an “o” as she understood. “Oh my God, I’m sorry,” she muttered, as she scooted across the rock, effectively blocking Natasha from view of the group. “You gave me that look, and I thought—“

Natasha didn’t really know what she’d thought, and she was okay with that. Carter was good in any fight or crisis, cool-headed but quick to think, but she was volatile, had a lot of sensitive points very close to the surface. 

Maybe the right word was _normal_? 

Natasha handed her the burn cream. She had no idea how to have the kinds of conversations normal people had, and she was too tired to pretend it was relevant.

“Just so we’re clear, at no point was I propositioning you,” Carter added. “I mean, I don’t like to assume that women are— and I know you and Barton—“

Natasha wasn’t sure if this conversation would be easier to follow in other circumstances. She didn’t want to be having it. She debated whether or not to say anything— “No.”

Carter frowned. “No what?”

“There is no me and Barton. There never has been a me and Barton. There never will be a me and Barton.” It wasn’t quite true, but it was in the way Carter was talking about— and it wasn’t any of her damn business, anyway. None of it was.

“Sounds like a speech you’ve rehearsed.”

“Of course not. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are completely professional and never gossip.”

Carter’s lips twitched. She spread the cream over her other hand, and hissed in pain. Natasha finished wiping down the deep scratches with antiseptic wipes. She’d need to get it looked at as soon as they got back; the claws might have been poisoned. She picked up the antibiotic cream.

“Looks nasty.” Hill dropped down, between her and Carter and off to the side, and sat crosslegged.

Natasha looked at her.

Hill shrugged. “I thought this was where the cool spies hung out.”

“I’m an assassin.” Natasha opened the tube with her teeth.

“Technically, Agent Hill, you get the dog’s silhouette, as Agent Romanoff and I only… disabled it.” Carter sighed.

Natasha looked up. “What?”

“Traditionally, pilots would paint the silhouettes of their kills on their canopies,” Hill explained.

“I’m aware. What does that have to do with you and the dog?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. tradition,” Carter said. “Anyone who kills or takes down something unusual, not just another mook— gets to paint the silhouette in the location of their choice. Within reason. Usually the wall of their quarters, or a patch of wall in one of the locker rooms. My boyfriend does the ceiling outside his quarters.”

Hill nodded. “Mine’s above my locker in Missouri.”

Carter looked surprised. “You have something there already?”

Hill grinned. Natasha was startled— it was a look she recognized from her mirror, feral and hugely self-satisfied, the pleasure of the hunt. It wasn’t a look most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents wore. “I took down a tank.”

Carter eyed her. “With what?”

Hill held up her hands. “These.”

Carter stared. Natasha hid a smile at the consternation on her face. “What?”

Hill’s smile faded. “An epic clusterfuck outside of Ashgabat. My commanding officer was a moron and let the tank get close enough to wipe out the whole squad. I had to run somewhere, so I ran up, and then dropped down on it from above.” She shrugged. “The rest was just a little gentle persuasion.”

Carter took a minute to find her voice. “You are _wasted_ with the soldiers. Come on over to the suits and floaters. We have cookies.”

Hill shrugged. “I don’t know where they’re going to send me after this. I doubt they’re keeping the squad together. Desk work, maybe.”

Carter looked appalled. “That would be a travesty. They give you that assignment, you should ask for another. Command of Thunder Bay is opening up. Again,” she added with a grimace, and glanced Natasha’s way. “They gave it to Hewitt for a while after I left. He’s getting drummed out on sexual harassment charges.”

Natasha smiled, and recapped the tube of ointment.

“You ran Thunder Bay?” Hill asked.

Carter nodded. “It was too much like desk work for me, but it _was_ a real job, not just paperwork. And there were moments of excitement. We took down pirates on Lake Michigan in fall of ’06.” She glanced over. “Do you paint your kills anywhere, Agent Romanoff?”

“I don’t need the attention.” They came from very different places, her, and Carter and Hill. They weren’t used to working in the dark. The idea of trumpeting her accomplishments like that struck her as stupid at best, and possibly dangerous.

Carter shrugged. “Run with it. Make it work for you. That’s what I do.”

Natasha eyed her. “What?” 

“My grandmother was one of the original S.H.I.E.L.D. directors. When I joined, I got a lot of people saying that I got the job on nepotism. They thought I was too young.”

Natasha blinked. “Your grandmother?”

“Yeah. Agent Peggy Carter, originally of the SIS, then attached to the SSR. She was Captain America’s girlfriend during the war.” Carter smiled faintly. “Or maybe it would be fairer to say Captain America was her boyfriend during the war.”

“Captain America.” Right— Coulson’s obsession. “I know an agent who’s—“ How much could she say without exposing Coulson? She considered for a moment whether she _cared_ , but Coulson was… a good man. She liked him, in fact. She didn’t need to expose him to mockery. “— interested in that subject.”

Carter’s smile turned sardonic. “My grandmother ran S.H.I.E.L.D. for thirty years, yet somehow, it’s always Captain America people want to know about.” Then her smile became wicked. “But if you’re talking about Agent Coulson, they’ve met.”

“And…?” Natasha prompted after a minute.

“He stayed in her good graces by asking her to tell him her entire life story. The _entire_ thing. And he paid attention to it all.” Carter shook her head. “Coulson’s something else.”

_He was genuinely interested in it all_ , Natasha thought, but didn’t say. Coulson didn’t need her defending him, and she didn’t need to reveal that she cared.

“He’s your handler, isn’t he? Yours and Barton’s.”

“Yes.”

“What’s that like?”

Natasha shrugged. “He’s fair.” _He’s… kind_. But Carter didn’t need to know that Natasha thought _that_.

“Coulson? He was the one who came after us in Georgia,” Hill said. “And you were there, and Agent Barton.”

“Yes.”

“Did you really not know how to fly a plane before then?” 

Natasha shrugged again. “I’d picked things up here and there.” 

They heard the _whirring_ of returning helicopters. Natasha put everything back in the med kit, closed it, and stood. “I half expected them to make us take the uninjured trainees and finish out the exercise.”

Hill stared. “You did?”

“Why not?”

Carter was looking at her with something a little too close to pity, or understanding. “Until we know what exactly happened out here, it’s not safe. We barely got out of this trap alive.”

Natasha nodded, acknowledging the point.

“I’m taking the head,” Hill said, as they watched the helicopter land. “The two of you can flip for the middle and the end.”

“What?” Carter said.

“Of the dog. I’m painting the head.”

“You don’t need to share your kills with us.”

Hill rolled her eyes. “It’s not a hunting trophy. I didn’t kill it alone.”

“Fine,” Carter said. “We could both paint the entire back section in silhouette— two sides. What do you think, Romanoff?”

“I’m not painting anything anywhere. Do whatever you want.”

Then the first helicopter was full of prisoners and soldiers, and the second one took its place. She took a seat in the back, where she didn’t have to keep up an impassive face for anyone, and slumped against the wall.

*

They sent her to Beirut. She was there for six weeks. She posed as a young, well-to-do, cosmopolitan woman, chatted in fluent French with attractive men she met in cafés, and took in all the culture that had survived the civil war. She also followed an undercover Mossad agent who wasn’t as good as she thought she was, finally discovered the location of her dead drop, and stole the other agent’s intel out from under her nose. It didn’t quite go off without a hitch, but it went off without a shot, or without any violence. She hadn’t had a mission like that in a long time. Clint was a quiet man, but things tended to be so much _noisier_ when he was around.

Then they sent her to Berne, because it was a season for Bs, apparently. She dyed her hair brown and caught a jewel thief who was smuggling diamonds to be used in the manufacture of prototype tank-based lasers for the Ten Rings. She stole the diamonds and left the thief for the police to find. She wished she could take credit for his capture— he’d realized someone was on to him, a day before her net closed around him, and he’d made it fun. But the knowing was enough for her.

She went back to the States. She wasn't averse to continuing the naming convention of her destinations, but first she needed to speak to Fury. She stayed in her tiny room in Manhattan for a night and slept deeply for the first time in months. In the morning, she watched a senior agent log in, used his password after he left the building, and found Fury’s schedule for the week, or at least his theoretical schedule. She put herself on his agenda and caught a ride to the Helicarrier.

“Agent Romanoff,” Fury rumbled as she stepped inside the large office she remembered from before. “I wasn’t expecting to see you on my list of appointments.”

She smiled sweetly. “I got lucky. There was an opening.”

She didn’t think he bought it for a moment, but he waved her to a seat. “You’re doing well for yourself, Agent. You have quite the reputation.”

“That’s not new.”

“What did you want?”

“You haven’t appointed a new second-in-command.” S.H.I.E.L.D. was still recovering from the revelation about Agent Robinson. They were testing new security protocols on a semi-weekly basis, trying to find the best alternatives. And there’d been some sort of internal reorganization— she knew Coulson was involved.

Natasha had been to see Robinson in his cell… once. She’d stayed until he’d looked up and seen her. His expression had been everything she’d hoped for.

“You’re not qualified,” Fury said.

Not qualified and not interested. “How long have you been grooming Agent Hill for command?”

Fury put down the piece of paper he'd picked up, and stared at her. “What makes you think I have?” It wasn't so much a question as a thinly-veiled order for explanation.

“She was promoted from junior agent status in under a year. She was made second-in-command of a squad significantly faster than the S.H.I.E.L.D. average. After Allegiance Squad dissolved, most of the other members were given extensive psychological re-evaluation and a barrage of personality testing. She was given additional hand-to-hand training and qualified on medium armament.”

“Maybe one of her supervisors sees something in her.”

“Apparently.”

Fury waited. She waited, too. Finally he said, “I happened to be present when an initial training exercise she was part of went south. I was impressed by her quick response. I kept an eye out. S.H.I.E.L.D. needs people like her. But if you're suggesting I have her replace Agent Robinson--” he frowned. “That's ridiculous.”

“She's a good leader,” Natasha said. “She took command of much more senior agents without hesitation, and saved their lives when they were incapacitated. She reacted to the loss of her people with professionalism and didn't let it stop her. She described taking down a tank with her bare hands as 'a little gentle persuasion.' She impressed Agent Carter-- and she impressed me.” She let that hang for a minute.

“She's good at what she does,” Fury said finally. “But she doesn't have nearly the experience, the training, the background--”

“Some of that's easy to fix.” Natasha spread her hands. “I'm only telling you what was in my report. I thought it might be more effective if I brought it to your attention personally.”

Fury didn’t reply to that. Instead he watched her carefully. “What’s in this for you, Agent Romanoff?”

Natasha considered that. What _was_ in it for her? “Nothing,” she said finally.

Fury sat back. “How very… disinterested of you.”

Natasha shrugged. “I think she’d do a good job. And I think she wouldn’t use her position to have me killed. That would be a nice change.”

Fury sighed. “There is that,” he admitted. “All right, Agent Romanoff, I've heard what you had to say. Good job in Montana, by the way. You brought our people home.” He gave her an approving nod.

“Thank you.” Natasha went away satisfied. He hadn’t said he’d think about it, but she knew he would. Nick Fury wasn’t a fool, and he didn’t think _she_ was a fool.

She caught the next plane down to Missouri. Coulson was there; she checked in briefly with him, then hitched a ride off base for an errand. Finally she approached Clint’s door, three takeout containers in one hand, and a six-pack of cold beer in the other. She juggled all of it into one arm and pressed her other hand to the palm reader. She didn’t know if he’d given her access— and she wasn’t about to ask— but—

The reader flashed red, then yellow: maybe her hand was too sweaty from the box, or maybe she didn't have access. She was prepared for this eventuality. Well, or she could always _knock_ , she supposed. But Clint had a broken foot, and besides— it wasn't like she cared whether he'd given her access or not, of course not-- but--

She flipped open the keypad and entered Coulson's override code. The door clicked, and slid open.

Clint looked up from where he was sitting up in bed, his foot propped up on a stack of pillows, three tablets in his lap. His eyebrows went up, and then he grinned lopsidedly. “Well, fancy meeting you here.”

“Hi.” She stepped inside, let the door slide shut behind her, and put her burdens down on the little table. It was the middle of the afternoon, Clint had probably already eaten— but unless he’d _just_ eaten, she knew he’d be up for another meal. He rarely turned down food. “How are you doing?”

He made a face. “I'd rather be fighting freshwater sharks and mutant dogs.”

“You heard about that?”

“Yeah, from Carter.”

She'd considered sending him a message more than once, but she hadn't been sure what to say. She’d been busy, and she didn’t really know how to do this… normal person thing. They were, they were… friends, right? That was the right word? It was a weird word, one she didn’t often think of in relation to herself. It wasn't that she doubted her relationship with Clint; it was that she had little knowledge of friendship, and doubted her own ability to uphold her end of the bargain. And staying in touch, that was a thing friends did? She’d regretted not contacting him even before she'd gotten here; she should have said something. Should have at least checked in to see how his recovery was going. “How’s your foot?”

He shrugged. “I get put back on light duty any day now, thank God.”

She turned one of the chairs around and straddled it backwards, propping her arms up on the back. “What have you been doing?”

He gestured with one of the tablets. “Paperwork. Analyzing field reports. Going over pictures from old records. This... forensic accounting stuff. They even put me on two missions.”

She frowned. “How?”

“They gave me a _scooter_ to get to the vantage point. It was embarrassing as hell not being able to do my own recon.” He pointed vaguely at the bedside table, which was piled with books. “Also did a lot of reading. Got through _War and Peace_.”

“What?”

“ _War and Peace_? Famous Russian novel? Leo Tolstoy?” He stared at her. “How are you _Russian_?”

“I’m not rushing anywhere. I’m sitting right here.”

He groaned. “Have you really not heard of _War and Peace_?”

“No. I have.”

He stared at her reproachfully. She smirked back, and opened the six-pack. “Beer?”

He got up, carefully, and wobbled over to the table. “Here.” She scooted to the edge of her chair so he could put his foot up on the other side.

“Thanks.”

“Is it painful?”

“It aches.” He shook his head. “I can walk on it, but it’s— not fun.”

They opened the containers and helped themselves to curry. “This is fantastic,” he said around his fork. “Thank you.”

Or at least, that’s what she _thought_ he was trying to say. “Chew your food, Hawkeye.”

They ate in companionable silence. “Oh, hey,” Clint said after a few minutes. He got up, hobbled to his dresser, and took a small package out of the top drawer. He brought it back and laid it on the table. It was wrapped in several layers of something black and silky. “This is for you. Happy birthday.”

She looked at it. Then up at him. “I didn’t get you anything for your last birthday.”

“I know.”

She looked back at it, then back at him. “You know it’s not my real birthday. I… don’t know when that is. I just picked a date when I joined S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“I _know_ ,” he said. “Why’d you pick April Fools, though? Or did you not know?”

She shrugged. “I’d just done the most foolish thing of my entire life. And I didn’t regret it. Seemed appropriate.”

“Foolish?”

“Yeah, I went home with some guy I met in a dark alley.” 

The word ‘home’ slipped out and surprised her; Clint just snorted. He nodded to the package. “You gonna open that?”

Natasha wiped her fingers on her pants, moved aside her food, and carefully unwrapped the first couple of layers. The contents were light in her hands, but she heard the faint _clink_ of metal. She put it down and undid the other layers—

And stared.

“Um, if you don’t like them, you don’t have to keep them.”

“These are _beautiful_.” She stretched out one finger, then stopped. “They’re not poisoned, are they?”

“What? _No_.”

Very gently, she picked up one of the _shuriken_ , avoiding the sharp edges. Each was of a different shape and weight. She brought it close to her face, and examined its details admiringly. “These are— thank you, Clint.” She put it down and picked up the next one. She was fascinated by them— and it provided a good cover for not saying anything. She wasn’t sure _what_ to say. She didn’t know how to handle birthday presents.

“Found them in a market in Osaka last year,” Clint said. “I’ll show you how to throw 'em, too.”

She looked up. “You know?”

His grin was cocky. “'course.” 

“Mmm.” She picked up the least baroque of the _shuriken_ , hefted it, and tossed it across the room. It _thunk_ ed into Clint’s dresser with just enough force to stick there.

Clint looked at it. Then he looked back at her. “I really thought we were past the you putting projectiles into my furniture phase of our relationship.”

“I never shot up your walls in North Carolina.” She took another bite, but kept staring at the _shuriken_ , imagining all the things she could do with them.

They slipped into silence again. After a few minutes, the door beeped, and slid open. They both looked up. It was Coulson.

Natasha kept her face straight and guiltless, with ease. He came over to the table. “You’re not supposed to have alcohol on base,” he said mildly.

Natasha handed him a beer.

He sighed, took it, looked down, and sat on the edge of the bed. They scooted the table over so it was within his reach. “Curry, sir?” Clint asked.

Coulson shook his head. “I got a message from Medical. They said, as long as I was checking in with Barton, could I remind him— firmly— to come to physical therapy?” 

Clint made a face. “I need a new therapist. The one they assigned me to isn’t any good.”

“You could have _said that_ , instead of playing hooky.”

“I _did_ say that. They didn’t listen to me.”

“Fine, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

“Funny, though, I wasn’t actually checking in with you when I got the message.” He looked at Natasha.

She helped herself to more rice.

“So,” Clint said. “Do you have a mission for me? Us?”

“Yes. It's called 'stay off your foot and don't make any more doctors cry.'”

“That was _one time_.”

Coulson looked at the bottle with poorly-disguised yearning, relented, cracked it open, and took a swig. “I'm leaving for Panama tomorrow,” he said. “Checking in with a source there. Depending on what I find out, there may be a mission developing once you're cleared for use of your foot.”

“A face-to-face, it must be dangerous,” she said.

Coulson shook his head. “It's sort of a vacation. Combining work with pleasure. My source and I go back.”

“Another old ‘friend.'” Clint's voice was thick with suppressed laughter. “How nice.”

“Barton?”

“Yes, sir.”

But apparently even Coulson couldn’t come up with a sufficiently motivating threat to quell Clint, at this point. He just shook his head again.

He looked down at the table. “What are these?”

“They’re mine. You can’t have them.” She put her hands on the edge of the cloth protectively.

Coulson put his hands in his lap and bent forward as if he were examining a no-touch museum piece. “They’re beautiful. Modern alloy, but in the old styles. You could do a lot of damage with these.”

“She already has.” Clint looked pointedly behind Coulson.

Coulson twisted in his chair, looked around the room, and saw the _shuriken_ embedded in the dresser. He turned back around. “I’m going to have to ask Director Fury to start giving me an allowance for hair dye.”

“Start?” Clint said.

Coulson gave him a mild look. “Where did you get them?” he asked Natasha.

She nodded across the table.

“She had a birthday, I figured it would help with the inevitable quarter-life crisis,” Clint said.

“Quarter-life crisis? Really?” Natasha remained deeply unimpressed by the phrases neurotic people with too much time for navel-gazing used to describe their lives.

“You didn’t have a quarter-life crisis,” Coulson pointed out. Then he gave Clint a thoughtful look. “Well.”

Natasha looked between them. “What?”

“May, two years ago,” Clint answered for both of them. “‘It followed me home, can we keep it?’”

Her dry retort died, squashed by the elephant in the room— at least the elephant in the room in her head— which was knowing that Clint had nearly killed her that day. He could have done it, she’d never had any doubt about that. How close _had_ he come? One day, she might work up the courage to ask.

It wouldn’t have been a courageous question, right at the beginning. But that which he had allowed her to keep— her life— was infinitely more valuable to her now than it had been then. She hadn’t had a death wish then, and she wasn’t under the illusion that she’d live a long life, now. Then, her life had been precious to her because she’d wrenched it from the Red Room’s grasp. Now, it was precious to her because she was _enjoying_ it.

She snapped out of her reverie before they could realize she was having Feelings. “I note without surprise that _you_ ended up cleaning up the fallout from _his_ 'crisis,'” she told Coulson.

“No surprise,” Coulson agreed. “No surprise _whatsoever_.”

“Hey,” Clint protested.

“Robinson's been talking,” Coulson said. 

Both of them stopped snarking and stared at him.

“Apparently Broad hates you, Natasha. Robinson just did it for the money.”

“For the _money_?” Clint sounded disbelieving, and contemptuous.

She wasn't. She'd done worse, much worse, for the money. “Why does Broad hate me?”

“You messed up one of his ops, apparently, when you were Red Room, and he lost a promotion as a result.”

She frowned. She seemed to have pissed off a number of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents doing things she didn't even remember. Carter had forgiven her; Broad had tried to kill her. This wasn't a good trend.

“I have things to take care of before I leave,” Coulson said. He put down his bottle. “Don't bring any more beer on base.” His tone was mild, conciliatory. “I know the two of you are responsible— reasonably— but we do have the rules for a reason.”

That was another reason he was a good handler. Saying that now was much more effective after he’d sat down and shared one with them, instead of just confiscating them immediately. She tilted her head and looked at him long enough to know she was considering it, and not just agreeing out of duty. “Fine. You never know what loose cannons will wander in and take one.”

“You’re always so thoughtful and safety-minded.”

“I try.”

“You’re very trying,” Coulson agreed. “Agent Romanoff, walk with me.”

It wasn’t a question. She tugged the _shuriken_ out of Clint’s dresser, wrapped it up with the others, and held the whole bundle carefully. She looked over her shoulder, hesitated, then asked anyway: “Do you need anything?” It was a perfectly legitimate question to ask, even in front of someone else. She wouldn’t fool Coulson at all by pretending she wasn’t concerned about Clint's well-being.

“A new foot?”

“I can bring you one of those. You’ll have to attach it yourself.”

“... never mind.”

Natasha smiled pleasantly, then followed Coulson out of the room.

She expected some sort of reprimand, about the beer or the use of his code, but he didn’t say anything. So she matched his silence. After leaving the residential wing, they ended up at Coulson's office; he stepped inside and let the door slide shut behind him. She crossed her arms, leaned against the wall, and waited.

But he was only in there for a minute. He returned holding a small, brown package. “This is for you.”

She looked at it, then at him.

“It’s a birthday present,” he added.

She took it cautiously. “Why?”

He made that face he sometimes made when she wasn’t doing a very good job of pretending to be a normal person. “Because you had a birthday, and I wanted to do something nice for you.”

She eyed him, then unwrapped the package. It was a small bag of fairly pricey and exotic tea, one of her favorite blends, but higher-quality than anything she ever bought for her own regular use.

She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Yes.”

“O… kay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Natasha.” He smiled, and went off to his meeting, leaving her holding the bag of tea.

She shrugged, turned around, and hesitated. She could go back to her room and sleep, or she could…

She went back to Clint’s room. She hesitated again, then pressed her hand to the palm reader. The door clicked, and slid open.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, stretching, and wincing. He looked up quickly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s… wrong.” She stepped out of the door way, after a moment, and let the door slide shut behind her.

“What did Coulson want?”

“To give me my birthday present.” She held up the bag.

He didn’t have to squint to read the writing. “Not coffee, but still. Nice.”

“Less lethal than yours.”

“Well, yeah, of _course_.” He stretched his other leg. It was probably more than he should be doing. She didn't say anything. She already knew he was slightly self-destructive when he was recovering from an injury he thought was taking too long.

She looked down at the three tablets as he gathered them up and settled back. “What's that?”

“Trying to track some of H.Y.D.R.A.'s money.” The left-hand tablet fell off his lap and he made an exasperated noise as he replaced it. “Sitwell gave it to me, said I was good with patterns.”

“You are good with patterns.”

“I mostly just cared that it was H.Y.D.R.A.” He frowned, watching the screen with the intensity he used on targets and shots. “Would be better if I could do it at an actual big screen, but it's not boring.”

“Do you have another book?” she asked after a minute.

He leaned over to the table and tossed her a paperback. She looked down. “ _Jurassic Park_?”

He shrugged. “’s one thing we’ve never fought. I find it kind of a comforting story.”

“Yet.”

“Don’t ruin it for me, Nat.”

“You weren’t the one fighting bioengineered sharks.”

“No, but I wish I had been.”

She didn’t argue. She’d come close enough to dying, often enough, that she had learned not to take recovery time for granted, but she also remembered being impatient when she’d been pulled from duty after Amsterdam. And Clint was… he felt bad, for reasons she couldn’t figure out, when he was injured, but _not_ when he was taking time away. Did he feel compelled to some sort of redemption? He didn’t owe S.H.I.E.L.D. anything; why did _he_ stay?

She didn’t know, and she wouldn’t dig. Not right now. Clint had earned the right for her to stay out of his head, for her not to try and deconstruct his every motive. Except when she was paranoid, or feeling uncomfortable. Or intolerably bored. Or it was Tuesday.

But it wasn’t Tuesday, so she sat down, propped her feet up on the end of the bed, and cracked open the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a universe in which Clint and Natasha _do_ tangle with _Jurassic Park_ , check out astridv's awesome [Why Reanimating Dinosaurs Is Never A Brilliant Idea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031899).


	8. Interlude: Salute Your Shorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: brief reference to sex abuse of a minor

“I was thinking.” Clint leaned back in his chair, boots up on the table.

“I’ll alert the media.”

Clint looked at her reproachfully. “Coulson’s a bad influence on you.”

“Funny, he says the same thing about you.”

“No, but I was thinking— and speaking of Coulson—“ He scratched the back of his neck. She watched him with interest. “His birthday’s coming up,” Clint finished after a minute.

“When?”

“July. July eighth.”

Natasha nodded, because he seemed to expect some response.

“Anyway, there's something I think he’d like, and I was wondering if you’d maybe like to… go in with me on it.”

She blinked.

Clint must have misinterpreted her silence, because he hurried on: “It’s not the money, I mean, I could get it myself, but I just thought—“

“What is it?”

“There’s a Captain America trading card— one of the last two he doesn’t have— up for sale on eBay. Close to new. Little ‘foxing around the edges,’ whatever that means.”

She had to consider for only a minute. “Sure.” She was living in some upside-down backwards world where giving gifts to your handler— actual freely given tangible _gifts_ , and not coerced sexual favors— was acceptable, and where she _wanted_ to do such a thing. But she didn’t mind; this world was better than any other she’d ever known. “Tell me how much, and I’ll chip in half.”

Clint told her the last asking price. She kept her eyes from going wide. It wasn’t that much money in relation to her salary, but it seemed like a ridiculous price for a  _trading card_ . Still, Coulson would enjoy it, and they would enjoy needling him mercilessly about for the next five years. “Fine.”

He bought the card. She brought a wad of cash to their next briefing-- small denominations, so it looked larger than it really was. “Unmarked, unordered small bills, just like you asked.”

Clint did that eye-crinkle thing that meant he was trying not to laugh. Coulson looked at both of them with a mix of weariness and healthy alarm. “Do I want to know?”

“I won a bet.” Clint pocketed the money.

“What was the bet?”

“I bet that she couldn’t rubber-band snipe  _all_ the agents in the fourth floor men’s locker room before some of them got out of range.”

Coulson shook his head sadly. “No. I didn't want to know.” He had that look on his face, the “Oh God, why are you testing me” look. She liked that look. Coulson was unflappable enough that she derived great satisfaction from putting that look on his face.

But he was Coulson, so he didn’t let it derail the mission briefing any longer. They left the next morning and the mission promptly went to hell. They didn’t get out for seventeen more days; by the time they made it out, she and Clint were two countries apart. She lay low in a safe house for three days before things cooled off enough that she could get out.

By the time she was back, Clint was gone again. Coulson didn’t tell her where, but she read the memo in the reflection of his tablet off Sitwell's glasses, and saw 'Warsaw.' He wasn’t back by the time she was sent with a strike team to blow up a warlord’s base in the wilds of Siberia and make it look like a terrorist attack. She was looking forward to it— she had no cover story and nothing to pretend to be, except maybe  _invisible_ or  _not there_ . She passed Coulson on her way to the armory. They made eye contact; he had a funny look on his face. Then he tilted his head towards a cross-corridor, indicating she should follow him.

“Is everything okay?” she asked when they were out of the traffic flow.  _Has something happened to Clint?_

“Everything’s fine. Thank you for the birthday present.”

Clint must have arranged for Coulson to get it after he’d left. “You’re welcome.”

“I have to ask, though…”

She waited.

“The wrapping?”

“What was the wrapping?” She hadn’t even seen it— Clint had taken care of the actual buying and delivery.

Coulson just looked at her.

“The weirdest part,” he said, turning and walking again, “was how he knew what size to buy.”

She realized what he was talking about, and didn't bother to suppress an evil smile. “I’ve gotten used to that.”

Coulson gave her an undecipherable look. After a moment, he said, “I can’t respond to that and maintain my dignity.”

She nodded. “But you can wear Captain America boxers and maintain your dignity.”

“See previous response.”

“That’s what I thought.” Then she remembered— “I do have something for you. Just from me. Do you have a minute?”

“Do I  _want_ to have a minute?”

“I’m wounded by your suspicion, Coulson.”

He sighed. “Lead the way.”

It was in her room, and she hadn’t wrapped it. She left him standing in the hallway when she got it out of her drawer. When she handed it to him, his face went completely blank. He stared at it. Then he gave her a look of deep reproach, like a puppy that's been unjustly spanked but is too well-mannered to bite back. “ _Captain Underpants_ ?”

She reached out and tapped the ridiculously glittery red, white, and blue sticker that she'd inserted in between the words of the title. “ _Captain_ America _Underpants_ ,” she corrected.

“I was trying to ignore that part.”

“It's the first in a series. I made you your own superhero book, Coulson.”

“What did I ever do to deserve this.”

“You handled Clint. And Clint brought me in.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“It’ll be Clint before it’s me.”

Coulson shook his head. “He does outrageous things more often, but you save up for yours.”

“I have  _no_ idea what you’re talking about,” she told him, as they reached the corridor where they turned in opposite directions.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Salute Your Shorts" was a show that ran on Nickelodeon in the '90s.


	9. Brought To You By The Letter P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: graphic violence; violent death; bodily injury; references to the same, as well as past child abuse, brainwashing, rape and sexual abuse, including of minors; threatened harm to a child. See the end notes for a more detailed (spoilery) warning of the last point.

“People are starin’ at me.”

She rolled over and tugged the straps of her bikini lower. “Welcome to my world.”

Clint was half a mile up the beach, visible if she'd been looking. He at least got the shade of an umbrella, perched on top of his lifeguard’s chair. She was baking on the sand, and she could tell she hadn’t put enough sunblock on.

Also, Clint got shorts. She had sand in some very uncomfortable places, and not a lot of sympathy for his plight.

“No, I mean—“ He paused. “I’m used to being the one doin’ the watching.”

“Mmm.” She shifted her head a bit deeper into the towel, so no one could see her lips moving. “Could be worse. We could be in Naperville again.”

His response was a soft _huff_. They went quiet to stay inconspicuous. Sweat ran down her neck. She could take a dip to cool off. She wasn’t sure if her “swimsuit” would stand up to that, but she was meant to be attracting attention. She sat up, reached for the bottle of sunblock, started with her shoulders and worked down to her chest. Half of the men watching were trying to be discreet. The other half were just staring.

She hadn’t seen their quarry, and Clint would have said something if he had. She turned over again to watch the other side of the beach.

“Any sign?”

She bit back her snap— that wasn’t Clint’s voice. “No, sir,” Clint said for both of them.

“We’re scrubbing the mission.”

“Exfil?”

“Just get out of there fast.”

“What’s the danger?”

“No danger. We need you to spring a diplomat who’s being held prisoner.”

“Got it, boss.”

She stood, stretched, and sauntered to the water’s edge. That was another reason to stay out of the waves— S.H.I.E.L.D. had supposedly improved the waterproofing of the earpieces, but without a backup earpiece she wasn’t going to risk it. She went in to her waist, washed the sand off of her legs, and then returned to her spot and leisurely toweled off. Every eye she caught meant fewer eyes to notice the lifeguard abandoning his post, though the overlap of people who would be ogling him, and would be ogling her, was relatively small.

She walked slowly off the beach, and kept up her pace for several blocks. Then she took a circuitous route back to their safehouse. Clint wasn’t there yet, so she showered off the sunblock. She winced as she washed her shoulders and back. Definitely burned.

When she got out, Clint was back and Coulson was on the line. “His name's Jonathan Koh. He’s been kidnapped by a cartel. We know the approximate location of their compound. Get in, free him, and get out. Attract as little attention as possible.” He gave them the location. “Any questions?”

“What’s our timeline?” she asked.

“Do it tonight if possible. We have intel that says he might be moved. But don’t skimp on the recon.”

“You got it, boss.”

She left to start the recon while Clint cleaned up and made himself look less like the lifeguard of an hour ago. She found the most likely building for the cartel's base and made a wide circle through the area, scoping out approaches and escape routes. She heard three clicks over the earpiece as Clint got into position.

“I think it’s the one with the owls painted over the door,” he said after a while. “Northeast corner, doors facing north and east, courtyard in the middle. Lots of young men going in with gun bulges in their pants.”

She brushed her hair back from her face as a cover for clicking her earpiece twice to acknowledge. It was the same building she'd identified.

“How do you want to do this?”

She turned so she could talk. “I’m not sure how much talking our way inside would gain us. I sneak in over the wall, you cover me?”

“It would gain us knowing where they’re holding him,” Clint pointed out. “We got some time. You think up a way in, I’ll keep watching, then we go with whichever plan has the most going for it?”

“Yeah, okay.” When she was safely a few more blocks away, she risked a look up under pretense of stretching her neck. “Where  _are_ you?”

“You just passed me.” He sounded smug. She didn’t turn and look; she’d find him again when she came back at nightfall. She was going through the supplies at the safe house when Clint came over the earpiece: “I saw 'im.”

They went at three in the morning. Clint used one of R&D's disappearing arrow shafts to knock out a lightbulb. She took advantage of the dark spot along the outside wall to climb to the roof. The windows where Koh was being held would be alarmed or at least watched closely, but it was a warm night, and some of the windows along the inside of the courtyard were open. She snuck in through one of them, then glided through the room to the hallway without waking the man sleeping in the bed.

One slit throat and one use of her Bites later, she reached Koh's cell. She broke the neck of the man outside the door, then opened it with his keys. Koh had his back against the far wall, as far from the door as possible. His eyes widened when he saw her.

“Come with me and I'll get you out of here,” she muttered.

She didn't need to offer twice. They went back the way she'd come. She killed another guard with a throwing knife, then boosted Koh through the window he'd been guarding. She winced at the noise as he scrabbled onto the roof. But going through the building had an even greater risk of discovery.

They made it halfway around the compound before there were shouts behind them. The bodies must have been discovered. Damn it; she was getting sloppy, or maybe she just wasn’t used to looking out for civilians on her missions. She shoved Koh towards the street and flattened herself against the roof. They could still get out of there without being seen.

He grabbed a shingle for stability. It came off in his hand. His palm scraped across the roof, and he hissed in pain as he tried to stop his tumble toward the street. She grabbed the back of his shirt and held on until he stopped falling… but that took two long seconds of his feet scraping loudly against the roof. Voices spoke sharply in the room below.

She got her feet braced against an exhaust pipe and grabbed his wrists. “Climb over the edge,” she hissed, moving him in that direction.

His eyes widened. He looked towards the street, then back at her. To his credit, he didn’t hesitate any more before wriggling backwards over the edge. They didn’t have any more time to spare. She lowered him as far as she could without risking falling herself. “You’ll have to drop.”

Even in the dark, she saw him swallow. But he took a deep breath and let go of her arms. She released her own grip. He landed heavily and stumbled to his knees, but didn’t appear to have broken anything. She swung herself over the edge and did the same thing much more gracefully. Koh was already moving, heading in a straight line for the nearest cover. Good; he wasn’t stupid.

The  _swish-thud_ of an arrow told her they had company. “At your six,” Clint warned. She pivoted, a gun in each hand, but Clint temporarily bottlenecked the gate by dropping two men right inside it.

“There’s a ship waiting for you two miles out.” Coulson came over the line, sounding grim. “You need to get to it. Apparently Mr. Koh has made the country too hot to hold him. If you can't make it, we'll have to land an assault force, and there'll be hell to pay.”

She tapped her earpiece as she ran, and glanced at Koh as she made it to the cover of the nearest alleyway. Coulson hadn’t sounded very happy with him. It occurred to her that they might be the mechanism for transporting Koh out of the frying pan and into the fire. She was okay with that.

They kept running. If Clint handled the pursuit with his quieter weapon, they would draw less attention. And if their target had pissed off someone important, then they really needed not to draw attention.

“Moving.” Clint’s voice was a little breathless in her ear; it sounded like he was leaping between rooftops. “Take the first left that you can and head for the water. There’s that marina that we saw near the beach.”

She tapped once to acknowledge. After a minute, his voice came back: “They split up. Four right, four left, but you got three on your tail, about two blocks behind. They’re runnin’ in between buildings, I don’t have the time to line up a shot for all of ‘em.”

She accepted the risk that Koh might split if given the chance, and gave him directions that were precise enough to get him where he needed to be if he chose to go there, but vague enough that he couldn’t figure out where she  _wouldn’t_ be and try to disappear. When he was out of sight, she ducked into a patch of shadow, and waited.

She was outnumbered three to one, which wasn’t bad, and she needed to keep it silent, which was a bit harder. Two minutes later she was breathing hard, blood-spattered, and wincing— one of them had gotten in a couple of good hits she’d be feeling for a while. But none of them had gotten off a shot. She sheathed her knives and ran silently after Koh.

He was still moving—good-- and in the direction she’d ordered-- even better. They ran fast for the marina, and made it there before Clint. She picked a boat to hotwire. As soon as they stopped moving, Koh started to shake. This was his first time in action of any sort, she remembered from the abbreviated file Coulson had sent. What was that  _like_ ? He was nearly twice her age, and yet this was the first kind of violent trauma he’d ever experienced?

She heard Clint's footsteps as she got the motor going. “Go!” he called softly. He made a running jump into the back; the boat rocked as she eased away from the dock. She headed for the open water.

He crouched in the stern, watching for any pursuit from water or air. He was talking softly to Koh, but she couldn't make out the words. The boat rocked heavily as she pointed the bow into the rough breakers-- and then they were through, steadily putting distance between themselves and the shore.

The noise shifted from heavy waves to steady wind, so she heard Koh when he spoke: “Don't think I'm ungrateful for the jailbreak, but I'd like to know where I'm going.”

It wasn't a question, so she didn't say anything. Clint was more forthcoming. “We're taking you to a ship. They'll get you out of here. I imagine your bosses will want some words with you.”

A pause. “My bodyguard. They—“

“Yeah. He’s dead. I’m sorry.”

She was pretty sure Clint was sincere, that he really _was_ sorry for the death of someone he’d never met, who risked death by his very profession.

“Is there any point in asking who you work for?” Koh sounded resigned, and tired.

“No,” Clint said. “But you’re a free man, we’re just taking you to safety.” Pause. “Looks like food and water in the box behind the— WIDOW!”

A familiar whistling, and the splashes of two bodies hitting the water. Impact-- the boat exploded.

She felt— she was burning, sharp pain and then dull pain all over—  _what happened_ — everything was jumbled, she was disconnected from her body— it was all silent--

She took a deep breath to clear her mind, and inhaled only water.

*

The pain woke her.

She was cold all over. Actual cold? Or because she couldn't feel her body? No, if it were actual cold, then she wouldn’t be able to feel her body. She had… she had causality reversed. But that wasn’t the problem. If she couldn’t feel then that wasn’t the pain.

The pain was inside. It was when she breathed. She came a bit closer to the surface of consciousness: _ribs_. Left side. Broken.

She could use that. She focused on the pain to drag her out of her fog. Pain: what else? Cold. Wet. Headache. A dull, indistinct noise in her head.

Water. Water explained the cold, the wet, and the noise. Not the pain. Had she failed a test and they’d dumped her in the lake again? Was she still being tested? The pain— a lesson from the pain— she needed to— Madame would—

“Are you in there yet?”

She recognized the voice. Why?

_Clint._ Eight years of history crashed in on her all at once.

She knew more things now than she had when she woke up: she was in the water. She was in 2008. She was with Clint. She took a careful breath, still painful for that. “Nnn.”

“They torpedoed the boat,” Clint said, unnecessarily, but even if she hadn’t been still trying to figure out if she were dying, she wouldn’t blame him for thoroughness. “Koh and I are fine, just wet. You—“

When he took a breath, she knew it was going to be bad and wanted to tell him just to spit it out, but she could barely breathe.

“— you went down with the boat. I dove, dragged you up, and did CPR. Which— is why your ribs hurt.”

It was a chance in a thousand to restart a heart like that. That was so improbable, she wasn't sure she believed him. Why would he lie? Why hadn't he used the AED?

Because she was soaking wet. And, apparently, her brain wasn't working too well. She knew that was bad. She thought that was worse than she realized. Why was it so bad if her brain wasn't working right?

From Clint's voice, she’d placed him in the water: near her head. She was on something wet and flat and floating, maybe a piece of boat. “Evac is on its way,” he added.

“Hi.” A new voice: Koh, their charge. “You don’t know me, but I appreciate your saving my life and I would appreciate it even more if you didn’t die on us before the ship gets here, because, while I have been accused of making things all about me, that would be an even worse ending to a really terrible week.”

He was talking like a man punch-drunk on the far side of shock, not a diplomat. Natasha could appreciate spunk. She could appreciate it more when she could also breathe.

“You  _are_ in there, right, I’m not just hearing things?” Clint asked.

Before she could work up the energy to make another noise, a wet hand covered hers. Not sentiment— it was much, much easier to wiggle her fingers at him than to speak. And it helped orient her. She was still drifting in and out, not so much of consciousness as of an awareness of her own body. Her ribs hurt fiercely and constantly, but everything else seemed… disconnected.

Clint continued to give her situation information: “The two of us are fine, you know I can stay up for longer than this and we pulled a life vest for Koh—“

“Who can also tread water, thank you,” Koh said with the air of someone trying to keep the tatters of his dignity around him.

There was one thing Clint  _wasn’t_ saying. She waited, but he didn’t volunteer it, which meant it was bad.  _Damn it, Clint, I don’t need to be babied._ She took a careful breath that burned, and discovered when she tried to talk that her lip was split. “Pursuit,” she managed to get out.

“None yet.”

She could tell from his tone that he expected some at some point. Of course they would come check to make sure their kill was clean. “Go. Get… Koh… ship.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re moving.”

She hadn’t, until he’d pointed it out. That was another indication she was so wrecked that they should cut her loose and save themselves. “Get him. To safety.  _Now_ .” She hated that Clint was making her have this argument when he knew she could barely talk.

“I’m not leaving you.” But it wasn’t Clint, it was  _Koh_ .

It would take too much energy to say  _the fuck,_ so she thought it with vehemence. He didn’t even  _know_ her, what was this, misplaced lust?

“I’m going to have enough nightmares about this. I don’t want to add the one where I abandon my rescuer to drown.”

It was hard to move her wrist without jarring her ribs too badly, but it was worth it to flip him off. “ _Idiots. Go._ ” Koh was a civilian, but Clint— Clint was a  _professional_ . “You. Know. Better.”

“Keep your breath to cool your porridge.”

What the hell did that even mean? She didn’t speak Midwestern.

“Far as I can see, no one’s coming, and it looks like there’s some fight on the shore. Think someone noticed the rocket launcher.”

_Your sentiment is going to ruin this mission_ . She was fading towards unconsciousness. She thought about tipping herself off the edge to get him to leave. But she knew he’d just dive for her again. And it would hurt, and she was a coward, and she didn’t want to die. “Fucking. Bastard.”

“You really think I’m gonna leave our charge? You want us to leave you, you talk him into it, because I can’t make it all the way to the ship if he’s fighting me and knocking someone out when they’re in the water is a terrible idea.”

“Throwing away what we did for you,” she snapped, and then choked, strangled, at the pain that caused.

“I don’t even know who you are, but people aren’t disposable, and I’m not throwing you away.”

She took a breath to argue and found herself blacking out.  _Damn it, you_

*

She woke up somewhere dark and warm, on a soft surface that was perceptibly moving. She wasn’t wet any more. But her ribs  _ached_ , and her skin felt like it was on fire. 

Right. Sunburn.

She was alive. But what had happened to their  _mission_ — she needed intel. She started to sit up.

“I know,” Clint’s voice came out of the dark, “that you are not actually that stupid.”

_That might make one of us._ She eased back down, cringing at the pain. “Update.”

“We made the rendezvous. Koh's safe, we're heading for Miami. They set your ribs, said there was no reason to airlift you out and it would do more harm than good. We'll be underway for another twenty-four hours. There was an on-deck accident not long after we got on board, so after they stabilized you they sent us back here.”

“Stabilized?”

“Yeah, you know, they wanted to make sure you weren’t going to die. Again.”

“Brain.”

“Equipment’s not great, but the doc said there was no evidence you’d been without oxygen long enough to take any permanent damage.”

Which meant basically nothing. She would have to wait until she was at a better S.H.I.E.L.D. facility to learn her fate.

“Doc said you got damn lucky,” Clint added.

Not lucky. It hadn’t been luck that had found her underwater, at night, and been able to restart her heart. “Thanks.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You should’ve left me.”

“No, I shouldn’t have.”

“ _Damn_ it, Barton, if you can’t think straight just because we’re  _friends_ , you’re going to get yourself killed and your mission fucked to hell and back—“

“There was no one after us.” His voice was cool. “In my professional estimation, it was not worth the risk to knock out Koh and risk him drowning as I dragged him to the ship.”

“He had a life vest. Or you could have given him my float.” She knew Clint would have never unless she’d actually been dead, but— it was an option, and he should have considered it.

“Are you even listening to yourself?” He sounded exasperated. “Deliberately abandon the Black Widow to capture or death, knowing damn well that as soon as I got in the next thing would be a bring-back-the-body-dead-or-alive mission? You’re valuable to S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Romanoff, and the risk wasn’t worth leaving you.”

“It was—“

“You are not the only professional spy in this room, Natasha.”

“What would you have done if they’d been coming after us?” she demanded. She listened to the silence, and felt justified in her alarm.

“I don’t know.” Clint sounded tired. “I would have made the call based on the information I had.”

“The right call would have been to—“

“The right call would have depended on the situation,” he snapped. “There is a difference between pragmatism, which is great and necessary, and treating people like they’re disposable, which is not. I told you, Natasha: I will not kill people without a reason. That includes leaving behind a half-dead and defenseless colleague. Jesus, Nat, I’m not going to be  _more_ callous with you than with any other agent just because, because, what, I like you and it’s possible that might bias my judgment? Do you think I would leave behind Phil if I could possibly help it? Or Tibs, or Carter, or, fuck, even  _Macdonald_ ?”

She blinked. “Who’s Macdonald?”

“Count yourself glad you have to ask.”

She needed to convince him that he couldn’t risk his job, his  _mission_ , just to save her life, but her head was fuzzy and it hurt to breathe. “They gave me pain drugs, right?”

“Yeah. Need more?”

“No. Need to make sure… things aren’t… malfunctioning. Must be the drugs.”

“Hey, Nat?” Clint said after a minute.

“What.”

“Remember that time you went AWOL from an organization that threatened to kill you if you did, drove several hundred miles, and risked your life saving mine?”

“Fuck you, Barton,” she muttered.

He snorted softly.

She still wanted to argue, but he’d neatly stolen the high ground with that remark, even if  _she_ hadn’t been in the middle of an active mission at the time. She gave up— for now. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a few lacerations.”

She felt the tug of the pain meds pulling her back down, but she wasn’t very comfortable. “Is there any water?”

“Here.”

Her breathing went shaky as Clint slid his arm under her shoulders and helped her prop herself far enough that she wouldn’t choke. “Can you—“

“ _Yes_ .” She took the bottle out of his hand with her right hand, only to fumble with getting the top off because it hurt too much to move her other arm. She hissed, but managed it before he tried to take it back. She drank most of it, gave it back, and slumped carefully back down. Then she fell asleep.

*

She woke to dim light and deep, quiet breathing that wasn’t her own. She wouldn’t be breathing like that any time soon.

Dawn showed through the tiny porthole. They were in a very small cabin, with a set of bunks, a chair that looked like it had been dragged in, and a box of miscellaneous medical supplies on the floor near her head.

She needed the toilet, and to see how bad her injuries were. Battered as she was, it took an extreme amount of effort to get to the door without waking Clint, but she managed it. She made it to the nearest head, closed the door, flicked on the light, and tugged up her shirt. Her ribs were swathed in heavy bandages and the rest of her was a bright lobster shade. No wonder she felt like everything was burning.

She walked slowly and painfully back to the cabin, and knocked twice before pushing the door open. Clint was propped up on one elbow on the top bunk, other hand casually out of sight until he saw it was her. He gave her a quick but thorough once-over. “You don’t look bad for a dead woman.”

That was the second or third time he’d mentioned that her heart had stopped. She didn’t think he’d even noticed. Either he felt guilty about having broken her ribs, or she’d freaked him out by dying, or both. She tilted her head, a safer alternative to shrugging. “I feel better than last time I woke up from being dead.” For one thing, she still had all her brains in her head.

“Mmm.” That might have been a wince. Clint remembered Amsterdam more clearly and in more detail than she herself did, and she knew he did not remember it with pleasure.

“No, I can’t imagine you leaving behind Coulson, or anyone else.”

His face went blank, and he watched her with a bit of wariness.

“And I don’t know how you can possibly do your job in those circumstances, frankly.”

He shrugged. “I made my decision a long time ago, Tasha. I’d rather be a dead fool than live with something that wasn’t— wasn’t right.”

“That’s impossibly naïve.”

She still didn’t get a rise out of him. “I don’t care. I tried it the other way, once. I won’t do it again.”

_There were some people I couldn’t help, and I ain’t never gonna forgive myself for that_ .

She wasn’t fighting at full strength. She went through the box until she found the painkillers and took another dose. Then she stretched out on the lower bunk and spent several uncomfortable minutes trying to find the least painful position. Then she fell asleep.

When she woke, someone was knocking on the door. It took her longer than it should have to realize Clint was gone. She put her hand on the gun under her pillow. “Who is it?”

“Doctor Li.”

The doctor examined her with some machine that made her head hurt with its beeping, and told her there was no evidence of any long-term brain damage. “I’ve ordered an MRI once you return to land, but it looks like you got very lucky. Your partner saved your life.”

“Yes,” she said, because the doctor seemed to expect a response. “I know.”

She tried to sleep again when the doctor left, but her ribs ached fiercely and her back and shoulders were one large patch of pain. She bit back a whine— that there was no one else there was the only reason she allowed herself to make any noise at all— and sat up. Would cool water help? Or-- she saw a bottle of lidocaine gel in the box.

She got it on the bottom of her back and the top of her shoulders. Anything else made her ribs ache almost past the point she could tolerate, but she gritted her teeth and did it anyway, thinking filthy Russian curses about whoever’d invented the bikini. She knew she was projecting, because she felt angry, and ashamed, about a situation made entirely by her own carelessness.

“Fuck,” she hissed, biting back anything further as her ribs and her skin ached in tandem. She knew that if she asked Clint, he’d help her without comment. But that wasn’t the  _point_ . She was a unit of one; she couldn’t grow dependent on him or anyone else. She needed to be able to do this herself.

Two knocks, then Clint pushed the door open and let it close behind him. “You want help with that?”

Her hand tightened on the bottle even as she considered it, torn between pragmatism and self-loathing.

“Actually, looks like you got it all.”

She turned, not even considering that she wasn’t wearing a shirt. “Are you lying to me?” she demanded.

He would have been well within his rights to call her a psycho. Instead, he motioned for her to turn around again. After a minute, his hand appeared over her shoulder holding his phone. She looked at the picture: her entire exposed back was indeed covered in green goop. She deleted it, passed it back without looking at him, and stretched— carefully— on the bottom bunk.

“Food’s not bad. Want some?” he asked.

Pain had taken away her appetite. That, too, was a weakness, but there was only so much fighting she could do today. She was mentally unbalanced enough as it is; she didn’t need the added challenge of keeping things down. “No.”

When the gel was no longer tacky to the touch, she pulled on her shirt and found a marginally more comfortable position. Clint had taken the chair, and was staring at… nothing. “Don’t watch me sleep, Barton, that’s creepy,” she muttered. Then she took a longer look at him, the first time in daylight since the boat had exploded. He was pretty beaten up, with bruises down his face and neck that looked like they continued down his torso. From the way he was sitting, she thought he had some on his back, too. “Did medical check you out?”

“Mm-hmm.”

She was too tired to push. He was an adult; getting his own minor wounds addressed was his responsibility. She was  _tired_ . She closed her eyes and let herself drift off, hoping it would hurt less when she woke.

*

When she woke, Clint was still sitting there, so she had no idea how much time had passed. She’d been asleep long enough for him to go find a book, though. She blinked at the title, then groaned. “Tell me you’re not  _actually_ reading  _Moby Dick_ on a  _boat_ .”

“Don’t let the captain hear you call it that.”

“You defy description or parody, Barton.”

He grinned, crookedly and genuine. “Thanks.”

She sat up, gingerly. She did feel better for sleeping. She stood and made sure things weren’t going to spin. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Getting cabin fever?”

She stared at him. He kept his cheerful grin firmly in place. She wanted to take the book and thwack him with it, but she didn’t, more because she wasn’t going to hit him than because there was any excuse for that joke. For  _him_ . “Is taunting tigers on worn leashes also one of your favorite hobbies?”

“Well—“

“That was a rhetorical question, Barton.”

But he followed her out the door. When she looked sharply at him, he shrugged without apology. “You have broken ribs. You have broken ribs because I broke them.”

“Yeah,” she retorted, holding the door so it didn’t slam in his face, “I’m really going to hold a grudge for you saving my life.”

He shrugged again. “Wouldn't surprise me.”

The smile dropped off her face. After a minute, she turned around and kept walking, because she had absolutely no way to reply to that.

It hurt to walk. It hurt to breathe. It also hurt when she wasn't breathing, so she might as well do something to distract herself from the pain. They came up on deck. She looked around carefully for a minute, getting her bearings and memorizing everything she needed to know, and stood by the railing. Clint leaned against the metal next to her, staring out at the ocean.

“Dolphins.” It wasn't the most incisive thing she’d ever said, but for five or ten minutes she just wanted to stay put and watch some uncomplicated predators.

“You sure? They look pretty intent.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re moving in a very porpoiseful manner.”

_Oh God._ It was so bad she couldn’t help snorting. Then she winced. “Don’t make me laugh, you ass.”

“Ma’am, yes ma’am, serious as the dead. You might even say…  _grave_ .”

“ _Stop that_ .”

Mercifully, he stopped.

“I wouldn’t take it out on you.” She wasn’t sure which of them she was trying to convince.

“We have different priorities, Tasha.” He was still staring straight ahead. “Blowing a mission’s not my worst nightmare—“

“—it’s not mine either—“

“—as you may have noticed.”

“And what about getting a civilian killed because you’re too emotionally invested in your coworkers?”

“Yeah, that one’s up there. I’d be more concerned if it  _were_ a concern. Tasha—“ He kept going before she could cut in with her protests. “Having  _normal human emotions_ isn’t a liability.”

“It is in our line of work.”

“No. I’ll be dead before I agree with you.” His mouth was a flat line.

“I’m afraid that’s more true than you realize.”

“Yeah? What about Coulson? You think he would have just swum away and left you there?”

She was silent, because she couldn’t honestly argue that he would have.

“Keep your own house clean, Nat, and let the rest of us worry about ours.”

That was so thoroughly proverbial that she had no idea what he really meant… or at least that was the line she was going with. “Thanks,” she muttered after a while. She was glad she wasn’t dead. She’d come out of the Red Room with a razor-sharp survival instinct; it had taken her years, though, to acquire enjoyment of life.

She didn’t stay up on deck long. She went down below and tried to sleep some more, because once she actually dropped off, she didn’t notice the pain. Clint woke her when they were fifteen minutes from port. She stared up at him, trying to figure out why he thought she needed to be awake for that fifteen minutes, and then forgave him when he handed her a large, steaming mug of coffee.

They docked next to a bunch of nondescript cargo ships. A chopper was nearby to meet them. It took them to the nearest S.H.I.E.L.D. base large enough to have a substantial medical facility. Clint disappeared; she was taken off for testing. They spent much more time on her brain than her ribs. Her stomach clenched unpleasantly at the thought of why.

They released her hours later with better bandages for her ribs, stronger painkillers, and directions to a temporary room. She didn’t leave until she’d also badgered them into giving her a strong topical anesthetic. She wanted to know what, exactly, those reports said, but she’d wait until she was clearer-headed to hack into the databases and read them. Besides, Coulson was methodical and careful enough that he changed his login frequently; either she needed to steal his new one, or find someone else with the clearance.

Clint fell into step beside her when she was halfway to the residential wing. “That’s kind of creepy, Barton.” She glanced up— he’d already had a shower and probably some sleep.

“What’d they say?”

She hesitated, and then just told him straight out. “All clear.”

“Good.” He didn’t try to hide the relief in his voice.

Had the thought of what could happen to  _her_ brain, in particular, if it were damaged occurred to him before it had occurred to her? Had he spent the past twenty-four hours wondering if he'd doomed her to a slow slide back into the Red Room’s insanity? She cut him a little more slack.

“You get another assignment?”

“Yeah, I’m heading to the ‘Carrier in an hour. You?”

She shook her head once. “I haven’t checked in. I don’t imagine there’ll be anything surprising waiting for me.” She let the bitterness leach into her voice. She was going to be grounded for a while.

“You’ll live.”

She smiled at his noticeable lack of sympathy. She preferred it to further apologies about her ribs. “This is where I get off.” She pressed her palm to the access panel; the door clicked open. “See you around, Barton. Don’t die without me there to save your ass.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, gave her a mock-solemn salute, and kept walking as she let the door close.

*

Convalescence was boring as  _hell_ , though hell probably would have hurt more.

She was so bored she became cranky and irrational, frustrated near the point of tears once, which only disgusted her more. When had she become a person who lost control of her emotions like that?

They ordered her to stay on bed rest for a week. “You gave Barton work to do when he broke his foot,” she snarled at Coulson when he came by.

Coulson was unimpressed by the snarl. “We gave him work when he wouldn’t risk his healing bones by sitting up to do it.”

She choked on her frustrated anger long enough to formulate a more convincing retort, and looked him over. It was the first time she’d seen him since before Panama; Blake had done her debrief. Coulson had, apparently, been in Perth. She wondered how he’d gotten the bruises on his neck— it looked very much like someone had tried to strangle him, and from the fact that he was keeping his sunglasses on in her room, she thought he probably had a spectacular black eye— but he wouldn’t tell her if she pried. “Damn it,” she spat. “I need something to  _do_ .”

What of Coulson’s expression that she could see looked unsympathetic. “You could try regaining your emotional equanimity with regard to being part of a team,” he suggested. “Barton said you accused him of risking the mission for sentiment, but I don’t think he’s the one who’s off-kilter here.”

She roundly, but silently, cursed them both out. “I don’t do  _Feelings_ when I’m on painkillers.” Not least because they tended to make her emotional anyway.

“Mmm.”

“You're killing me here, Coulson.”

“No, if a bit of your ribs comes loose and gets into your lungs or a blood vessel,  _that_ would kill you. I’ve already had to babysit you once this year after you made idiotic medical decisions. I’ve reached my limit.”

He sounded serious, so she didn't bite back at him. “How is Barton?” she asked after a minute or two.

“You haven’t been in contact with him?”

“We’re not pen pals. We don’t write each other long, pining letters when we’re apart.” That she  _had_ been tempted to get in touch was irrelevant.

“… Coulson?” she prompted after about five seconds.

“Sorry, I was savoring that mental image. He’s fine.”

A few minutes later, Coulson left her alone with her boredom, anger, frustration, and self-loathing once again. She terrorized one of Medical’s newest employees into rigging something up over her bed so she could read and use a tablet without having to hold her arm up constantly. She started teaching herself Bengali, using S.H.I.E.L.D.’s vast troves of audio surveillance to make sure she had the pronunciations correct. When she got sick of the unfamiliar script and the drugs combining to make her head spin, she practiced her hacking skills. They needed the practice. She worked in the S.H.I.E.L.D. mainframe and made staying undetected her goal. It was touch and go, but after a few days she learned S.H.I.E.L.D.'s safeguards well enough to set up a backdoor for herself, and used it to work on increasingly well-defended servers.

She was good and didn’t try to over-exert herself. She wanted to be allowed up as soon as possible. When one of the doctors commended her good behavior as a patient, Natasha smiled sweetly. Luckily, the doctor didn’t know her well enough to worry.

By the time they let her out of bed, IT security was getting suspicious. S.H.I.E.L.D. was still uneasy after Robinson; this would be a particularly bad time to get caught. She went back to learning Bengali, and reviewing all the old case files she could get her hands on.

She also decided to experiment some more. She wasn't quite sure why. She needed to know who she was. The spectre of having the Red Room in her head again had made her question who she thought she was. How much of her was really her own? How much of her was their leftovers? Maybe she just enjoyed the freedom of experimentation, or maybe she heard a nagging voice telling her that the Red Room had made her this way and she needed to remake herself. They'd have to be careful of her ribs, still, but she could be very creative.

She let the agent get his hands up her skirt before she realized— or admitted to herself— that this was about as enjoyable as a medical examination. Possibly less enjoyable, since she usually knew exactly what medical wanted from her and what they would and would not do.

She pulled out of his grasp and stepped back. “No.”

He blinked at her. “No, no?”

“We’re done here.” She straightened her shirt and skirt.

“You fucking  _tease_ , Romanoff. Do you do this to all the guys you go to bed with?” He didn't try to touch her again or stop her leaving-- he wasn't that stupid. But he was stupid enough to keep talking. “It’s a wonder Barton and Coulson can think straight, being around you all the time,” he called, as she hit the door release. His words seemed to dig into her spine and made her shiver, but she kept going, not missing a breath or a step. “You must keep your harem on a short—“

The closing door cut off his voice, but she knew what he’d been about to say.

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard her name linked with Clint’s, but dragging Coulson into it was new. Coulson was universally respected by everyone who didn’t underestimate him. And she’d never heard anyone talk so dismissively about Clint in that context. She didn’t like any of it. She’d long ago gotten past caring about most of the gossip, but she cared about the implication that she’d fuck her handler or that Coulson would fuck his subordinate. And she cared if the gossip bothered Clint, but she thought his skin was thicker than that.

She wasn’t getting anywhere with this, trying to go to bed with strange men, and she wasn’t enjoying it. It wasn’t that she couldn’t; that was a laughable idea. It was that she, Natasha, just wasn’t interested. She felt like she had something to prove, but that was a stupid way to feel.  _I want what I want, and don’t what I don’t._

But she wanted to be thorough, to eliminate the possibilities. If the Red Room had taken something from her then she wanted it back. It was harder to find an interested woman. She knew Carter was interested— but she liked Carter, considered her a sort-of friend, even, and didn’t want to risk making their relationship even more awkward than it had been at Thunder Bay. Safer to start from scratch and reduce the risk of collateral damage.

Besides, it was easier to pretend it was normal to be uninterested if it was someone she didn’t know.

This time she got as far as taking her shirt off before she just— was done with all this. Why was she bothering? Why was she putting herself through something she didn’t even like? None of the rest of discovering her identity had felt like this. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right for her.

The look of disappointment when she pulled away was getting familiar. The lack of surprise wasn’t. “Agent Riesebold talked about you.” Danvers' face was flushed. “He said you did this to him too. This is a game to you?”

Natasha buttoned her shirt.

“Because I don’t appreciate you leading me on like that.”

Natasha turned towards the door.

“You’re not even going to say anything?” Danvers’s voice was tinged with disbelief, and a bit of anger, or suspicion. “What the hell  _was_ this to you? Did you enjoy getting my hopes up? Did someone  _send_ you? S.H.I.E.L.D.’s not the kind of workplace that cares who—“

“Stop.”

Danvers stopped.

“I wasn’t leading you on. But I won’t keep going with something I don’t want.”

Danvers’s nod was slow, but honest. Natasha turned away again and didn’t see whatever other expression crossed her face.

The irony was that she'd wanted to be sure that this was really  _her_ ... but in her effort to be sure, she'd used her body as a tool, with the same dispassion, just like They'd taught her. For her own ends, this time, but with no more consideration of what she actually wanted.

She went back to her room and took a shower. She liked being warm, and right now she wanted to do something she liked with her body. Then she buried herself under an extra blanket.  _No more. I’m done_ .

*

Someone knocked on her door.

“Who is it?”

“The ghost of Christmas past.”

“I only consort with ghosts I made myself.”

The door slid open. “I don’t care how bored you are,” Clint said, “you can’t make me a ghost.”

“Kill. The word is kill.” She looked him over critically. His hair was long enough to show that it was wet. Since she’d last seen him, he’d tanned and acquired some new bruises. There was also a long, thin red line on the outside of his left arm.

“You can’t do that either.” He had a plastic bag in his hand. He unpacked the foil-wrapped contents onto her little table as he looked her over right back. “You’re looking pretty good.”

“Yeah.” She grudgingly admitted that as tedious as this was, she was healing quickly. S he’d always been a fast healer.

“I thought hamburgers. You need a hand up?”

“No.” She moved carefully to the nearest chair.

“Coulson said no more beer, so I brought the next best thing.”

“In what universe are  _juice boxes_ the next best thing to  _beer_ ?”

“You’ve never had these? They’re fantastic. Pure sugar.”

“You’re a strange man, Hawkeye.”

“Thanks.”

They ate quietly for a few minutes. After two sips of one of Clint’s ridiculous juice boxes, she handed it to him to finish and got her mug from the bedside table. Clint took it from her and filled it at the sink for her. The only perk of her injury: she’d been moved to a room with a bathroom so she wouldn’t have as far to walk. “Thanks.”

They talked in a desultory fashion about what he’d been doing. “Oh,” he said, finishing up the tale of his last mission. “I got to use the blowgun you gave me. Then I got to rub it in Coulson's face.”

She smiled. Coulson had not been particularly pleased with her birthday present to Clint.

They talked about what she'd been doing, too. She exaggerated her tale of bored woe, and taught him a few insults in Bengali. “What’s next for you?”

He leaned back and stretched. “Don’t know.” The light caught his face at a different angle, and she realized how tired he looked.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Um… forty-eight hours ago?” He stuffed the wrappers and empty juice boxes in her trash can and stood at the foot of her bed, hesitating. Before she could ask or say anything, he toppled forward, facedown, and landed with an air of being settled that was practically geological.

She picked up her tablet and sat down on the other side. “Are you sleeping?” she asked after a few minutes.

“Just resting my eyes.” His voice was muffled by the pillow.

She read another section. “Is Coulson back too? I haven’t seen him around.”

Clint started to snore softly.

She slid down the bed until she could undo the laces of his shoes and tug them off. She didn’t want him putting them on her bed. He didn’t even move, which told her how dead to the world he was. Then she sat back with her tablet.

He was still sleeping when she finished her reading. She analyzed and annotated field reports for a couple of hours. Then she started to get hungry again. She knew he'd be up for eating again when he woke. When he didn't even shift when the bed did as she stood, she frowned and reached for his pulse. Satisfied that he  _was_ alive and breathing, she headed for the mess.

She grabbed a large box and got in line with everyone else. Seeing Coulson across the way reminded her she'd forgotten to tell Clint about  _Captain America Underpants._ She smiled.

Coulson saw her and came over. “You look happy about something.”

“It’s macaroni day,” she said seriously, filling the box to the gills. “That’s always a good day.”

“Hmm.” He reached for his own plate. “You haven’t seen Barton, have you?”

“Yes. He’s asleep in my bed.”

“Oh.” He glanced at the box she was filling.

“You can come back with me if you want.”

“No,” he said after a minute. “I’ll catch him tomorrow.”

Clint was turned over but still asleep when she got back. She ate her share of the macaroni and left the rest for him. Then she looked at some more field reports, turned the lights off, and climbed gingerly into the other side of the bed.

*

Clint was still asleep when she woke up. She listened for his breathing again just to be safe. He had to be exhausted to sleep through so many meals. She dressed and started brushing her hair, hissing softly when the motion of lifting her arms abused the ribs she hadn’t been careful enough of yesterday.

“Want help?”

She turned around. Clint’s voice was gravelly with sleep, and his eyelids were drooping. “Sleeping Beauty awakens.”

He made a show of looking around. “Where?”

She handed him the hairbrush and sat on the edge of the bed.

His strokes were gentle and careful, and she found herself relaxing into it. “Want me to put ribbons and flowers and stuff in it? I think that would be a good look for you.”

“Want me to insert that hairbrush in a vital part of your anatomy? I think it would be a good look for  _you_ .”

Someone knocked on the door. With Clint here, there was only one other person who was likely to come looking for her. “Come in.”

The door slid open. She turned her head in time to catch the tail edge of Coulson’s slight frown. “Barton, we need you for the follow-up.”

Clint was already reaching for his shoes. “Now?”

“The lieutenant was seen trying to cross the border, but the police lost him.”

Clint’s string of cursing was fluent enough to impress even her. “I didn’t know you spoke Bengali,” Coulson said.

Clint tilted his head in her direction. “Wait, how do  _you_ know Bengali, sir?”

“I spent some time traveling between Bangalore and Kolkata about ten years ago.” He watched with barely-concealed impatience as Clint laced his shoes. Clint sketched her a quick wave. She pointed at the box of macaroni. He gave her a grateful look and took it. He hesitated in the doorway: “It was, uh, good to see you, Tasha.”

“Yeah,” she said after a minute of surprise. “Yeah, you too.”

He ran to catch up with Coulson. The door closed.

*

As soon as the doctors cleared her for them, she started spending a lot of time in flight simulators. She’d picked up enough to keep a plane or a helicopter in the air, but she wasn’t really a good pilot by S.H.I.E.L.D. standards. She also sat in on an intensive field tactics course being taught to soldiers being promoted. Well, snuck in; half the students in the class jumped when she raised her hand to ask her first question.

She badgered, cajoled, and coerced two separate S.H.I.E.L.D. flight instructors into taking her up so she could log the necessary amount of flight time to qualify, on the quinjets and on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most common helicopter. The day after she “recruited” her second semi-willing instructor, a familiar-looking blonde woman sat down across from her in the mess, looking amused. It took Natasha a minute to place her: Agent Thibodeaux, who’d co-piloted the rescue mission to Georgia, and won the pool on her and Clint being still alive in Dodoma.

“Rawlings told me he had the Black Widow up his ass,” she drawled, accent thick.

Natasha shrugged.

“I’m here for a while,” she said. “You want to go up, you come find me.”

Natasha eyed her. “Why?”

“I like you,” Thibodeaux— Tibs?— said, which was news to Natasha. “I also like Barton, who likes you. And, not that I don’t like watching Rawlings squirm, but I’m a better pilot than he is on basically anything S.H.I.E.L.D. can field.”

“Okay,” Natasha said after a minute, wondering what was in it for the other woman.

Thibodeaux wasn’t lying; Natasha pulled her file and then used her newfound skills to pull the parts of her file she didn’t have access to. She was one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most highly-qualified pilots, higher even than Clint; she’d spent more time logging hours on more kinds of crafts. And when Natasha took her up on her offer, her skill was apparent.

They’d just put down one afternoon when Thibodeaux’s phone buzzed. She looked at it, wrinkled her nose, and swore in a dialect Natasha only half-understood.

“What is it?”

“PT test for the pilots in my squad. I hate those Goddamned pull-ups, they’re the worst. I barely scrape by every time. Push-ups are fine,” she added hurriedly, as if warding off Natasha’s judgment, “but pull-ups are just Satan’s gravity-assisted spawn.”

Natasha looked her up and down. She had a decent amount of muscle. “I can help you train for them, if you want.”

Thibodeaux looked up. “Really?”

“I’m no bigger than you are and I make a decent portion of my living doing acrobatics. Yes.”

They got into a pattern of flying in the morning and meeting in the gym in the evening, after Thibodeaux went to the meetings and trainings she was on-base for. Natasha showed her how to do better pull-ups, and exercises to keep herself improving. Thibodeaux tried to keep pace with her through an entire workout, which was brave of her, but she wasn’t half-bad at it. At the end of one session, Thibodeaux incautiously offered to spar. Natasha grinned exultantly inside. It was the first chance she’d had since before Panama. The doctors were hemming and hawing and telling her to take it easy, but she could feel that she was ready now. She wiped the floor with Thibodeaux, though not as thoroughly as she might have done otherwise. At the end of it, Thibodeaux still shook her hand and said it was a good match. In another few days, Thibodeaux had passed her test and Natasha had qualified on quinjets.

Early the next morning, Coulson found her in the mess. “We have a mission for you. Come with me.”

She felt her eyebrows rise. It was about damn time, but she honestly hadn’t expected it this early. She followed Coulson—

He turned and threw his mug at her torso. Her reflexes kicked in. The hand farther out had her own cup in it— she reached around to grab the mug. Coffee sloshed over the edge of the mug— but Coulson’s, unlike hers, was lukewarm.

He was watching her critically.

“The _hell_ , Coulson?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re not lying to your doctors about your readiness.” He held out his hand for his mug.

“Do you normally expect things you throw at people to be returned to you?”

He reached for  _her_ cup.

She backed up two steps and glared at him. “I don’t lie to my doctors.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t. My brains trying to melt out of my head taught me that lesson.”

“As I recall,” Coulson fell into step beside her, apparently resigned to the loss of his coffee, “that situation resulted from an omission rather than a blatant lie.”

She shrugged. “So you could say I’ve  _never_ lied to my doctors.”

“I could. I could also say that you’re a delightful, well-mannered, easy-to-handle professional who’s never cost me a moment’s sleep, but you’ll notice,  _I don’t_ .”

She smiled. After a minute: “Is there actually a mission besides catching your coffee?”

“There’s actually a mission.” He reached over and plucked his mug from her fingers; she let him.

She was surprised to see Clint in the conference room, though it made perfect sense that she wouldn’t have known he was on-base. He looked her over and turned to Coulson. “Did she pass?”

“As far as I can tell.” Coulson sat down. “Agent Thibodeaux also reports that she seems to be moving freely.”

She was startled enough to let her mouth fall open a bit. “You set me up.”

Coulson looked extremely self-satisfied. “No. I just used the resources at hand. Agent Thibodeaux’s offer was genuine and unprompted by interference.”

“And I’m the President,” she muttered.

Coulson winced. “I would really rather not contemplate that scenario.” He activated the screen. “The two of you are going to Prague. You’re investigating a possible Ten Rings weapons cache and watching a woman who may be trying to access it.”

Clint frowned. “I thought Ten Rings had no footholds in Europe. I thought that’s what the Athens mission was about.”

“That’s what we thought, too.” He displayed a picture of a woman with short black hair. “Mary Ng is ostensibly a student visiting from CUNY to use the National Archives. We picked up some unusual chatter centered around her. It's probably not coincidence that we’ve also gotten intel of weapons shipments into Turkey, using known Ten Rings encryptions. We know they’ve been trying to establish operations in Europe for years, but until now, H.Y.D.R.A. has outcompeted them.”

He looked unhappy, and the next words out of his mouth revealed why: “Unfortunately, the body blow H.Y.D.R.A. suffered in January— or maybe I should say blows to the heads— may have created an opportunity for the Ten Rings to move in.”

Clint sighed softly.

“I guess we should have expected that taking them down so badly would have created a power vacuum,” she said after a minute.

“We did expect it. That’s why we had the surveillance resources in place to pick this up.”

“What are the chances that this is another Frankfurt?” she asked. “Or another Munich? We haven’t had good luck with investigating stockpiles in European cities.”

“The chances are pretty low. We don’t  _think_ the Ten Rings is at the stage of heavy recruiting in Europe; they’re trying to move people and matériel in first. Budapest was less than nine months ago. There is a large Vietnamese community in Prague that the Ten Rings might consider using as cover, but due to historical accident they’ve never recruited as strongly in Vietnam as in the nearby countries. And after what happened at Nha Trang, many Vietnamese expats who might have been ignorant or tolerant of the Ten Rings have much stronger negative feelings towards them.”

They left the next day, taking separate flights and staying in separate hotels with separate cover stories. They’d decided that Natasha would follow the target and Clint would watch the suspected weapons cache. Before she found the target, she found an excuse to pass by the area of the cache. No point in being sloppy. One pass was all she would risk, but she identified potential entry and exit points, and got a feel for the pedestrian and vehicular traffic in the area, as well as any potential ambush spots.

She staked out a small restaurant across from Ng's apartment complex, and pretended to pore over the thick notebook she’d brought. It was in fact written in Czech; her Czech vocabulary was barely passable, so if she was going to sit here, she would use her time wisely.

The target never showed. Natasha packed up and left when the waiter started unsubtly eyeing her. She tailgated someone into a nearby building and found a landing with a window that looked into the target's apartment: it looked empty. Go to the university and look there? What little intel they had on the target's schedule indicated she'd been spending most of her time at the Archives, and those were closed now. It was unlikely she'd be on campus.

Natasha went to her hotel to rest while she could. She'd be conspicuous if she stayed where she was all night, and if in the morning it looked like Ng had been back and left again, Natasha could break into the apartment for clues as to where she was. She checked her room and stretched out for a few hours of sleep.

“Damn it,” Clint said in her ear, just as she closed her eyes.

She sat up and grabbed her gun. “What?”

“I keep trying to find a restaurant where people speak English but not _once_ have I heard someone say ‘check, please.’”

It took her a minute to get it. When she did, she flopped backwards onto the bed, head cradled in the pillow. “Hawkeye, you  _dork_ . I thought something was wrong.”

He chuckled. After a minute, he added, “Gotta say, this’s better than the last time I was in Prague.”

“What happened then?” She needed to sleep, but right now, she liked this, just… chatting in the dark.

“Dungeon. Handcuffs. The boss.”

How to get him to tell her that story without actually asking? While she was still coming up with something suitably subtle, he added, “And not a dungeon and handcuffs in the fun, Coulson’s-redheaded-girlfriend way, either. Though I wouldn’t really call  _that_ fun. Do you suppose—“

“Good  _night_ , Hawkeye,” she muttered. It was dark and she was alone, so she didn’t really need to hide her smile. “Get your beauty sleep. You need it.”

“… hey, Widow, in Soviet Russia, beauty sleep—“

“If you finish that sentence,” she said, “I will do something very unpleasant that leaves no permanent damage to you, sometime in the indefinite future.”

A long pause. “Now I’m just curious.”

“Hawkeye, go the fuck to sleep.”

Finally, he shut up.

Ng's apartment looked undisturbed the next morning. Natasha broke in anyway. Everything was there: toothbrush, clothes in the hamper, perishable foods in the refrigerator. She called that into Coulson, searched the place more thoroughly, and settled in for another day of waiting.

“This place looks clean,” Clint murmured in her ear. “I think this place really is a crafts shop.” He shifted positions. “Not unheard of for terrorists to use sweet little old ladies for cover, but the two who just went in had a fifteen-minute discussion of something, and they were waving those needles around like they knew how to use ‘em.”

She tapped her earpiece to acknowledge.

The only thing that happened over the next six hours was that Clint’s reports on the shop and its customers became increasingly colorful. “I guess the knitting instructor with the pink buzz cut and the nose stud could be the contact, but, uh, she doesn’t seem like the type.”

_That’s the whole point_ . But he knew that as well as she did, and historically, the Ten Rings had mostly recruited Asian men who were good at blending in.

“Someone just opened the back room,” he reported a while later. “They opened a box of thread. The entire stack of boxes fell over. They’re definitely not hiding weapons there.”

“Ng's a ghost,” Natasha muttered a while later. “I haven't seen her once.”

“She hasn’t turned up here.”

_You’re sure_ ? But if anyone could be sure, it was him.

“But if this is her cover story, why go to all this trouble to sneak around unless she’s pulling something off right now? If you’re a deep cover plant, you don’t deviate from your routine unless you have to.”

“I talked to HQ.” She shouldered her bag and held her phone to her ear. “They haven’t picked up any unusual chatter on the local frequencies. I'm going to break into her mailbox and see what the last postmark is.”

She was halfway up the stairs when-- “Strike Team Delta, do you copy?”

It was Coulson. She touched her earpiece. “We’re here.”

“We just had a report from a source in Immigration. Your target landed at JFK an hour ago.” He sounded chagrined.

“What?” Clint asked.

“We don’t know. We’re working on it.”

“Do you want us there?”

“No, the Manhattan base can handle it. Finish your surveillance on the shop and come home. I’ll send you exfil.” He went off the line.

She took over for Clint watching the shop so he could get some rest. He met her back there after dark. They watched together in silence-- she with infrareds, he without.

“Someone's around the back,” he said after about an hour.

She slipped the infrareds over her head, but couldn’t see anything over the roof. “Faking a break-in. Not a bad contact method. I’ll flank them, you keep watching.”

The faint sounds of breaking glass made her abandon subtlety, dart across the narrow street, jump to grab the edge of the roof, and pull herself upwards. The sound had come from the back of the building— she could drop down in the alley behind, and wait for the burglar to come back out--

She heard glass crunching again— the burglar was walking back over the broken glass. Coming back out? Yes: as her line of sight cleared the edge of the roof, she saw a dark figure hurrying away down the alley. She swung over the eaves and dropped lightly to the ground, taking off in pursuit. The figure looked over its shoulder, saw her, and began to sprint.

They were fast as hell. She had a fleeting remembrance of Hill calling herself the fastest woman in her state: this burglar could probably give her a run for her money. The Red Room had taught Natasha to do everything well, including run quickly for long periods of time, but this burglar was a match for her. Natasha managed only not to fall behind as they skidded around corners and dodged around parked cars. She tapped her earpiece: “Hawkeye, give me something.”

“I could shoot him, but better if we corner him off the street.” He was breathing quickly. “There’s an empty factory building about a quarter of a mile up the street, two blocks over. From the shortcuts he’s takin’, looks like he knows the area, so I bet he’s heading there. I’ll come around from the other side.”

He'd called it correctly: the burglar headed unerringly for the tall building that loomed in the darkness. And he was familiar with the building, because he knew exactly where the most shadowed door was. From the speed with which it opened, either he was adept with lock picks, or it had been unlocked. She tapped her earpiece. “We could have company.”

Hawkeye grunted. She heard the heavy  _thud_ of him landing on another rooftop. She listened outside the door. Hurried footsteps inside, but no voices. She grabbed the knob— if it was locked now this was going to fall flat fast— twisted, pushed the door open, threw herself through the doorway into a dimly lit space— a bullet splintered the frame— rolled, and rolled again until she found herself in darkness behind some crates. They were in the middle of a heavily populated city; someone would have heard that shot. Maybe the shooter realized that, too, because there were no more. Silently, she eased down the aisle created by the towering, haphazard stacks of dusty boxes until she could look around the other side. 

Someone big was coming, impressively quietly. He hadn’t seen her yet. She saw three, no, four others disappearing into the darkness by the light of the low fire in a brazier in the middle of the floor. Trying to scatter while the muscle took care of her, or trying to flank her? She tapped her earpiece four times in quick succession as she rolled into a low crouch and flattened herself against the boxes:  _where are you?_ No reply.

But someone screamed in pain, out there— either Clint was here, or the situation was more complicated than she’d thought. She listened as the footsteps came closer, then slowed— the flickering light dimmed as the shadow loomed over her— she exploded up from her crouch, caught the man’s gun hand as he tried to shoot her, used her momentum to get her legs around his throat, and threw him to the ground. He groaned once and didn’t move. She took his gun and kept moving, running for the next stack of boxes.

When she stuck her head up again, she saw two of the others disappearing out a window.  _No_ — she flicked a knife across the wide floor, and it went through the pant leg of the one in front before burying itself deep into the rotten wood of the wall. Before he could do more than gasp, she put another knife in the meaty part of his leg. He screamed and sank down. The other figure had dropped down as soon as the knives had started flying. The window was clear for now. Two down, one more by the window, and the other two--

A  _thud_ from up above, a grunt of pain that was disturbingly familiar, then the more familiar  _swish-thud_ and a stranger’s shout of pain. That left one. She looked up— and saw Clint grappling on a catwalk with the burglar— 

She whirled as the large man, now up again, grabbed for her leg and missed. Even as his hand came away empty, he lunged up from the ground. She feinted with a kick and then swept her other leg across his, fouling his attempt to stand. He grabbed her foot, trying to yank her off-balance— she let his pull give her momentum and kicked him in the head. He fell back again. This time, she tied him and searched him quickly. An ID, maybe a thousand euros or so in crumpled large bills, two guns and a pair of brass knuckles— definitely local muscle.

She heard breaking glass and looked up just in time to see the burglar disappear through the skylight. Where was Clint? “Hawkeye?” she murmured.

“Can't-- pursue.” His voice was hoarse.

There was a new dark shape in the middle of the floor, pinned by an arrow through his sleeve, buried deep in the dirt. She double-checked the floor to make sure the others were still down, then sprinted for the far door. The burglar was running down the outside stairs. Natasha was barely twenty feet behind, but she still had to run for a block before tackling him to the ground.

He was just a boy. She pinned him and searched him quickly. No weapons. She knocked him out and carried him back to the old factory. Then she gagged and bound them all. “Hawkeye!” she muttered, too softly for them to hear.

“Need help.” His voice was low and rough.

“Where are you?” She couldn't see him in the catwalks, which meant he was down.

“Was at the northeast corner.”

_Was?_

“Am,” he corrected himself.

She took the stairs two at a time. At the top, she saw him, a darker shape slumped against the dark wood.  _Shit_ . She ran the rest of the way. The window above him was shattered. There was glass all over the place. She reached him, looked for blood-- none-- and started patting him down for broken bones.

“It's my eyes.”

She looked closer. His eyes were closed, and his face, including his eyelids, was covered in broken glass. “Did you go face-first through?” she demanded.

“Had help.”

“Just... hold still. I'll get this off.”

“Tweezers in my left pocket.”

She took the tweezers out of his pocketknife and a small flashlight out of her own pocket. Then she put an arm under his shoulders and helped him sit up straight. She straddled his legs, trained the flashlight on his eyelids, and started carefully removing the chunks of glass. “Did any get under the lids?”

“No.”

Most of them were embedded just far enough to stick, so that if he’d tried to wipe them away with his finger, he would have pushed them farther in. He was perfectly still, and his breathing was slow and even. But his pulse was hard and fast enough to be visible under his skin.

“It’s okay.” She played the light across his eyelid, looking for the telltale glimmer of a small piece she’d missed. “You got your eyes closed in time. You’ll be fine.”

A footstep behind her— she started to turn, keeping her body between Clint and the newcomer— he grabbed the gun from her thigh and shot the intruder twice through the chest. He went down, toppling over the side of the balcony.

“Shit.” She’d seen Clint make some impossible shots, but never relying only on his ears. “You don’t even need your eyes.”

His fingers brushed her leg as his hand clenched into a fist.

Her brain caught up with her mouth.  _Romanoff, you asshole_ . “Sorry. God. Clint, I'm sorry.” 

“'s fine.”

The adrenaline from the near-miss was making her hand shake. She took deep breaths and got herself under control, then went back to work until she thought she’d got it all. She felt around in his pockets until she found the water bottle he usually carried, and tilted his head sideways. Then she carefully rinsed each eyelid, pouring the water so the flow started near his nose and ran down his face. Finally, she ran a finger very lightly over each eyelid, feeling for anything she’d missed. His eyelashes tickled the pad of her finger. “You’re good.”

He opened his eyes slowly, then blinked and looked up at her. She moved the flashlight so it wasn’t shining in his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Welcome. You good to go?” She stood and gave him a hand up. “None of them have any unusual weapons. Judging from the tattoo on the big man, I think they're local mafia, probably hitting up the store for protection money.”

“Any evidence of a link to--”

“No. The local people tend to be pretty territorial. But if we want to be sure--”

They heard sirens approaching.

“-- we could take them somewhere else.”

“I trust your judgment. You got their names?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we'll have S.H.I.E.L.D. pull 'em. Let's go.”

She followed him out the broken window to the roof. He went first, taking a running start and clearing the gap to the next roof with ease; she landed near-silently behind him. The police hadn't gotten close enough to see them yet. They jumped another alley and made good on their escape.

“I was slowing the mission down. You should have left me behind,” he said when they were safely gone.

_What?_ She opened her mouth to give a sharp retort. Then she saw his bland expression, and felt an uncomfortable anger. She voiced a different snarl: “That's not the same thing at all, Barton.”

“No, of course not. And it doesn't bother you at all that I suggested it.”

“Fuck off, Barton,” she bit out. What made her angriest of all was that she didn't have a better retort. Because he was right.

She was glad when Coulson came on the line with their exfil. Clint swept their hotel rooms; she used a fake ID and fake card to rent a car, and picked Clint up. The drive was uneventful. Clint slid his seat back, put his feet up on the dashboard, and slept. That was a relief; she couldn't tell if the silence was tense or not, and she didn't want to bring it up. She watched the Czech countryside slide by, and kept an eye out for any sign that they were being followed. The most hazardous thing they encountered was a boy in a sports car who really didn’t know how to drive it.

They were early, so she decided to circle the city before heading to their assigned rendezvous point. Clint woke up near the city center, as the bells struck twelve. “It’s noon already?”

“No.”

He looked at her. “That was twelve chimes.”

“Yes.” She didn’t explain. If he really wanted to, he could find out about Brno’s famous  _katedrála_ himself.

Sitwell came over their comms shortly thereafter. “I have good news, and I have bad news.”

They looked at each other. “Do you actually have good news, or are you just saying that?” Clint asked.

Sitwell’s slight pause was telling. “I have… news.”

“What’s your news?”

“The agents you’re supposed to be meeting have been, um, unpreventably delayed. You won’t be catching a ride. The good news is, you get some downtime.”

“Does ‘unpreventably delayed’ mean ‘killed’?” she asked.

“Do they need help?” Clint added.

“No,” Sitwell said firmly. “That is the last thing they need. They said they needed twenty-four hours. Someone will be in touch then.”

Clint took the car to a branch of the agency she’d rented it from in Prague, and then they had… downtime. They wandered the center of the old city and bought krokodýls from a street vendor. Mid-afternoon found them sitting in a quiet plaza in the sun, not saying much, drinking some truly excellent beer. They were in a corner, and both of them had their backs to the wall; of course neither of them had had so much beer that they weren’t aware of their surroundings. But she was relaxed. That was a rare feeling, and she was thankful she knew how to savor it.

The waiter appeared with steaming dumplings. With restraint that probably pained him, Clint only motioned for him to bring the check as well. She stole two dumplings off his plate while he was watching the waiter retreat into the building, only to growl indignantly when he caught her wrist without even looking up, and neatly ate the dumplings off her fork.

They found a quiet hotel with clean sheets, and a small, pretty garden in the back. She sat on the edge of the bed as Clint leaned against the wall, and they looked at each other blankly. “So,” he said. “What do normal people do on vacation?”

_Pretend they're having a good time. Fight about the mortgage.“_ Does it matter? What do  _you_ want to do?”

They ended up on the outskirts of the city. The area was a mix of new administrative buildings— a satellite facility for the French embassy, a broadcast station for the Voice of Europe surrounded by a wide lawn and an ornamental fence, a small business college— and the broad stretch of land they’d come to see. It sat alone without much fanfare, just a low building and a sign explaining the dig. “You sure you want to do this?” Clint asked.

It had been his idea to come out here and check out the 9 th -century excavation site, and he’d proposed it self-consciously. “You said there would be pointy things?”

“It started when they found an ancient weapons cache, yeah.”

“Then lead the way.”

They were the only visitors. Clint crouched in front of a long display of bits of wood that might, optimistically, once have been parts of arrows. She studied the daggers, housed in a glass case, and tried to imagine using them. She admired the blood channel and the intricate carving on the most well-preserved dagger. Weapons were tools and it was foolish to romanticize them, but she couldn’t deny that this was a very aesthetically appealing weapon.

She came up silently behind Clint, but the building was still enough that the air she stirred alerted him to her presence. “Please don’t sneak up on me when we’re in a building full of weapons,” he muttered, still staring at the arrowheads.

“Like the location makes a difference.” She squatted beside him. “So why are they different?”

“Oh, I don’t know, you want C— the boss for that.” He stared at them for a minute longer. “It looks like it had something to do with changing bows— these aren't all from the same time. This one looks like it was meant—“

An explosion rocked the building.

She stumbled and raced for the door, Clint right behind her. The broadcast station was spewing smoke, but most of it was intact. An explosion that loud and the building not leveled— definitely not a gas leak, which meant it had probably been deliberate. “The roof!” Clint called. She squinted through the smoke as they ran— she could barely make out someone moving around up there.

They vaulted over the fence. The front door was unlocked, but the vestibule was full of smoke. That wasn’t right— it hadn’t been coming out the windows, so if the explosion was on the roof— it was like a smoke bomb—

A black-clad figure loomed in the inner doorway, wearing a gas mask and body armor and holding a rifle. Natasha shot him in the head before he could shoot them. “Pretty sure this isn’t building security,” she coughed, crouching where the air was clearing and going through his pockets. No ID.

“Up on the roof—“

“I’ll stop them. You can see better through the smoke. Get the survivors out.”

He nodded once, and vanished inside, pulling his quiver out of the duffel bag that had been hiding it.

She took the rifle and the gas mask and crawled low through the hallway until she found the stairs. A sign had come off the wall from the force of the explosion: On-Site Daycare. There was a tattered stuffed bear on top of it. She felt cold, and then angry. But she couldn’t tell where the sign had come from, and she didn’t hear any children crying. It was late in the day; maybe they’d gone home? She needed to stop whoever was on the roof before they set up another blast.

The gas mask didn’t fit perfectly. Her lungs were burning by the time she reached the roof hatch. She hadn’t heard any gunshots… or sirens. She picked the lock on the roof hatch, braced her legs against the railing, and pushed. It didn’t budge. But she could see from the hinges that it had been very recently oiled, and there was plenty of room between the frame and the door. Someone was probably standing on it.

She retraced her steps to the hallway. There was a window at the end of the building. She kicked out the glass and took a moment to clear the shards from the frame. Then she climbed out, turned, grabbed the eave, braced her feet against the corners of the window frame, and pulled herself up over the edge of the roof with one hand. The man standing on the roof hatch was large, wearing body armor, and holding a rifle like the one she’d left below. Her shot took him in the back of the head. He collapsed as she pulled herself all the way onto the roof.

The second man was crouching near the antennas. He turned at the gunshot, but she already had him in her sights. She advanced across the roof as he stood, motionless, hand staying away from his gun for now. As she got closer she could see he’d been crouching in front of a laptop, and the webcam light was on. There were more explosives sitting on the roof, but they hadn't been armed. “What is this?” she demanded. The roof rocked slightly as part of the building collapsed.

He frowned at her. “You are not the police. An American? I did not think we would warrant the C.I.A.”

“I’m not the police.” She took a guess, based on the level of sophistication of their equipment, at his interconnectedness with the underworld: “I’m an assassin. I'm the Black Widow.”

His eyes widened.

“So tell me,” she repeated, “what is this?”

“This is just the beginning. This is the opening salvo. Today, the government knows we are here—“

Another, harder jolt. She closed the lid of the laptop with her foot. She wouldn’t give him the opportunity to  _advertise_ .

He spat on the roof.

“What are you after?”

“This government is ineffective. They have ignored us too long. We will bring the state back to the people.”

“So you’re Communist revolutionaries,” she translated. “What was the rest of your plan here?”

“We have taken the building. This broadcast will go out live to all Europe. People will come to join us, they will send us money, they will sympathize. Meanwhile, our country will see that the government is weak. We will profit off the chaos.”

“And for this you found it worth blowing up a civilian building with children inside?”

“All noble causes,” he said, “demand great sacrifice.”

_Wrong answer_ . “I’ve killed kids. It’s not noble.” She shot him in the head.

Making sure he was dead barely left her time to get off the roof. The ceiling was falling in, flaming chunks of plaster and wood. She checked every room on the top floor. No moving bodies, no bodies passed out from smoke inhalation, though she would be soon--

The stairs she'd come up were choked solid with rubble. She sprinted for the other end, lungs burning as she held her breath. The end was a wall of flames, but she could see the stairs behind; it was the door frame that was on fire. She dove through, a second of pain, and fell to the floor, rolling over and over to put out any flames on her clothes. Then she came up against the wall and swept the stairwell. Empty.

Were there any survivors? From the roof, she’d seen more terrorists massing to storm the building once it was suitably softened up, to answer the same question. If she could get to the lower levels, behind a sufficient choke point, she could hold them off until she ran out of ammo, or they blasted their own way in, or they thought to toss a gas grenade. And she needed to find Clint— if there were survivors, he would have found them.

The flames were spreading out of the hall-- the _groan_ warned her. She dove headfirst down the stairs and rolled into the hallway of the floor below just as the ceiling fell in. Damn it, at least the fire was confined to the upper levels, but it was destabilizing the roof. How long did the whole building have?

She found a man hiding behind a desk in one of the offices. “C’mon,” she ordered, reaching over to give him a hand up. For a minute she thought he didn't speak English, but he was just dazed; he took her hand and stood up.

“Where?”

“I don't know yet. Anywhere’s better than here.”

He looked her over, and his eyes widened when he saw her weapons. “Are you going to shoot me if I don’t?”

“What? No. I’m not with them. I’m a… law enforcement officer who happened to be in the area. Come on, we don’t have much time. Keep your voice down, if there’s shooting you stay down and then run for safety the first chance you have, understand?”

He looked dazed— understandably— but nodded and followed her out of the room.

“Do you know where the others might be?”

“They— they might have gone to the lounge? It’s the only place big enough for everyone— well, besides the studio, we should check there too— if they’re all together aren’t they sitting ducks?”

“Let’s hope those two were the only ones on the premises.”

They cleared the floor and headed down. She hadn’t seen anyone else— living  _or_ dead. Had more terrorists already gotten in and started taking hostages? If so, they should be searching the building for more themselves, unless they were seriously short on manpower--

“What’s that?” A slow, grinding noise came from the other end of the building.

The man listened, eyebrows furrowed. “The cargo elevator.”

_Shit_ . If she wanted to get a large number of people into the building, or heavy machinery— “Is there a way out through the basement?”

“Tunnels? I, I don’t know—“

She shoved him towards the stairs. “Run for the basement but stay close to the stairs. Go!”

He ran. She flattened herself inside a doorway on the same side as the elevator. It was coming  _down_ , not going up-- could be more terrorists trying to sneak in from the roof, bypassing the stairs since they were blocked—

The elevator settled quietly, and the doors hissed open. Silence. But, very faintly, the sounds of breathing. She aimed at the elevator—

Something appeared through the doorway. She held her shot until she could identify it— and then held her fire when she did. “Hawkeye.”

Clint turned in the act of sweeping the corridor.

“What’s the situation upstairs? I found one guy only, and no bodies.”

He smiled slightly, and jerked his head toward the elevator. She frowned, but padded silently down the hall—

The elevator was crammed with people standing shoulder to shoulder, some holding kids on their shoulders. They all stared back at her with wide eyes. “I rounded up everyone I could, herded them all in here, and stopped us between floors. Then I opened the top hatch and climbed up to the roof to see what was going on. Must’ve just missed you, I assume the bodies are yours?”

“Yeah. There’s more coming out front—“ She wouldn’t say  _I don’t think we can get them out that way_ in front of the civilians, so she didn’t say anything at all and let Clint interpret that. They both knew that sneaking out themselves was different from shepherding twenty-five other people out.

“Someone’s moving downstairs,” he murmured.

If the terrorists were already inside, then the best thing to do would be to shut the people in and tell them to stop between floors again. If Natasha hadn’t noticed it was missing, it would take the terrorists a while to notice, too, and with Clint and Natasha holding them off, they might buy time for help to arrive—

“Just one person,” she murmured back. Climbing the stairs—

She saw him before he saw her, and lowered her gun. It was the man from the office. “Tunnels,” he panted. “Tunnels in the basement, we can hide.”

“Do they go anywhere?”

“I felt a draft.”

If he were the terrorists' man on the inside, then he could be luring them into a killbox of a trap. She  _had_ found him hiding upstairs, away from everyone else. She and Clint could plausibly have him go ahead under the guise of leading them. But if they walked into a trap, could she and Clint protect all the others?

Someone would have heard the explosion, but the terrorists would have prepared for that eventuality if they were any good. Hiding in the elevator would only buy them time, not an exit. The more time went by, the longer the terrorists would have to seal off the building even more thoroughly.

She looked at Clint, raising her eyebrows. He nodded once. She turned back to the man. “Lead the way.”

She followed him; Clint slipped back to bring up the rear. The noise of twenty-five frightened people trying to tiptoe down dark, smoky stairs put her on edge— even the kids were being quiet, but they were just too many. If they were walking into a trap, they were announcing their presence in neon lights. She listened for any sound coming from up ahead, any hitch in the man’s footsteps, and also any sound coming from above.

“It’s right there.” The man pointed to the end of the room, where boxes and miscellaneous furniture were stacked.

Suspicion grew in her mind. “How did you see it in the first place?”

“I used my phone as a light.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the people still filing down the stairs, then stepped cautiously past the man. She felt the draft, too, rustling her hair. She pointed her flashlight at the wall, looking for signs of a disturbance. In the dim light, she saw one set of footprints in the dust going towards the end of the room, and one set coming back. She glanced at the man’s shoes— the size and shape were about right. If this  _were_ an ambush, he wouldn’t have needed to actually walk all the way out to the wall and back. But if he were good, the lack of footprints would have occurred to him, too. “How do you get into it?”

“Can I have that?” He took the flashlight from her and led her around some abandoned desks with bookshelves, some very dusty boxes, and then pointed to a low hatch at the end of the aisle. “It comes off. Here.” He walked forward without hesitation— she took a gun in both hands and prepared to dive for cover— he picked up the thin wood of the hatch, set it aside, and played the light of the flashlight into the gaping space beyond. All she saw was darkness surrounding a low tunnel. The dust on the floor was undisturbed, and past the cloud of dust floating in the air from the opening of the hatch, there was no sign that people had been moving around in there lately.

She took the flashlight from him and ducked under the edge of the tunnel. It sloped downward. When she scuffed her foot against the floor, the echoes indicated a lot of space up ahead. The draft was still present, tickling the back of her neck. She sniffed, and smelled something unpleasant far down the tunnel. If this went down to the sewers, they could at least hide in the access tunnels.

She backed out of the tunnel and looked around. The door from the upper levels was still open— she frowned, and started forward to find Clint— he stepped in front of the light, his quiver briefly silhouetted, and tugged the door shut. The only light left was from her flashlight. One of the kids started to whimper.

Clint stepped around the group and joined her. She tilted her head towards the tunnel. “It seems to go somewhere, at least. Maybe down to the sewers.”

He nodded. “I barricaded the front door. Should buy us a few minutes.” He moved past her and crawled into the tunnel. She watched the door leading from upstairs as she waited for him to come back. The whimpering kid was crying now. He was going to get them caught if he couldn’t keep quiet. She moved in the dark towards the man holding him, but before she got there, the noises tapered off. She barely caught the sound of a very soft song. Well, whatever worked.

She went back as Clint climbed out of the tunnel. “See anything?”

He shook his head. “It goes on for a long way. I went as far as the first bend, but there’s another one. Slopes slightly down, but the walls aren’t wet.”

“Anything on the comms?”

He shook his head again. “I—“

There was a  _crash_ from upstairs. They looked at each other; Clint was already moving back towards the tunnel’s mouth. “C’mon, time to go,” he told the people in front.

“I'll buy us some more time.” She moved towards the door, and got the rest of the people moving after him.

If she barricaded the door at the top of the stairs, it would be obvious where they’d gone. She slipped up the stairs, listened for any movement beyond, and emerged on the first floor. She didn’t hear anything. If anyone had entered the building, they were being very, very quiet— which would suggest that they were expecting to meet resistance, or that they had noticed the absence of dead bodies and were trying to find where the employees were hiding. No footsteps, even stealthy ones; no doors opening and closing. If she waited for people to enter the building so she could kill them and cover their exit, she might lose the chance to catch up with Clint and the others. Theoretically, it shouldn’t be hard to find twenty-five untrained civilians in a set of tunnels, even if they branched. Theoretically, this was just a sleepy little broadcasting outpost of no interest to anyone whatsoever.

She returned to the basement and locked the door behind her. She needed to erase their footprints and hide the hatch from view— though if anyone came in before the dust settled, it would be obvious that someone had trooped through here. She found some rags in a corner and shuffled across their tracks, moving the dust around so it wasn’t obvious some had cleaned up. Then she shoved all the cartons and the furniture up against the walls. That had the two-fold benefit of making it obvious that no one was hiding down there, because there was nothing to hide behind, and concealing their exit.

She shoved a couple of the oldest boxes in the tunnel to make it look like it had been undisturbed for a long time. She put a couple of old glass lamps, probably leftover from before the building had been a broadcasting station, behind the last box in the tunnel. If anyone pushed the cartons back, the breaking glass would be audible. Then she tugged a stack of boxes into place in front of the hatch, pulled them flush with the other stacks, and refitted the hatch cover from the inside.

It was very difficult to wriggle past the boxes down the tunnel. She nearly got stuck twice. She took deep breaths to calm the anxiety she felt rising. If she could barely do it, then no one else would be able to. That would discourage the idea that they’d gone this way, if the terrorists did find the tunnel.

The dust that attacked her nostrils told her she was definitely following the escapees. She turned off her flashlight to see if there was enough light to let her eyes acclimate. If they weren't too far ahead, and Clint had his flashlight...

After a few minutes she saw a very, very dim light ahead, but it didn't look like a flashlight. She turned the flashlight on again, kept it covered with her hand so only a pink glow showed, and kept going. Why couldn’t she hear them by now? Had they made excellent time? Or had Clint, somehow, miraculously, gotten them all to be quiet like professionals?

She did hear something. She hurried forward, but it wasn't people, it was a dull roar. Were they walking into a trap laid with earth-moving equipment and mad scientists? She wouldn't be surprised, at this point. She had to say this for S.H.I.E.L.D.: her missions had become  _weirder_ than she'd ever imagined.

The light grew stronger, but she hadn't figured out the roar before she caught up with the group.

To his credit, the man Clint had placed at the end and ordered to watch their backs saw her coming fairly quickly. Even better, he recognized her in the dim light and didn’t freak out. “Anything happen?” she murmured as she came up behind him.

He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on up there. But we’ve just been walking.” He glanced back behind her. “Did you, uh…”

“I sealed us in. It should hide us a while.” If they didn’t find a branching in the tunnel or some place to spread out, and if the terrorists did find where they'd gone— she and Clint could hold them off for some time, depending on how far they got, but the rest of the people would have no real chance, running for their lives in an unknown tunnel system. And eventually the terrorists would get lucky and take the two of them down.

The tunnel straightened. She could see all of them now, in a scraggly line with Clint at the head, an arrow on the string. “Who are you people, exactly?” the former rear guard asked.

“Law enforcement.”

He looked her up and down, taking in her uniform and her weapons. He looked at Clint and back at her. “What branch?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“I’ve never heard of you.”

“We’re very good at what we do.”

“And what is that?”

“Staying off people’s radars.”

“And you just happened to be in the area?”

“Yes, actually.”

“You couldn’t have  _warned someone_ that this was going to happen?”

“We did just happen to be in the area,” she repeated. He still looked skeptical.

Clint glanced back and saw her, giving her a quick nod. She returned it: all clear back there, as best as she could make it. She checked all her knives in their sheaths. She didn’t need to check her guns; she’d reloaded on the roof.

The dull roar was getting louder— and so was the smell. It made her stomach roil, but she’d been in far worse situations than smelling a little sewage. She told herself that firmly, and choked back her gag reflex. She  _was_ getting soft. She could have  _Feelings_ all she wanted, but a body that would not obey her was a body that was useless as a tool. S.H.I.E.L.D. had taught her to have a somewhat less grudging acceptance of her body’s limits, only because that acceptance was accompanied by the knowledge that none of her employers would beat her for admitting something that could be perceived as weakness. She breathed shallowly through her nose and focused on listening behind them.

She could tell by the increased draft through her hair that they were coming up on an open space, even before she saw the light up ahead and heard the change in the noise. It wasn’t a  _lot_ of light, but it was enough to stand out in the near-stygian gloom. They slowed, and then stopped, leaving her still standing in the tunnel. She listened hard, but there was no sound of breaking glass, no footsteps, and no change in the airflow from behind them. She shepherded everyone in front of her out of the tunnel and discovered why they’d stopped: they were backed up on a ledge overlooking an underground river. It wasn't flowing very fast, but the sound echoing in the cavern made the roar. The rock above was open to the sky in a few places-- not big enough to squeeze through, but enough to explain the light. Contamination from the sewers would explain the smell.

She squeezed past the civilians and joined Clint. He was staring across the river. “You got any bright ideas,” he said, “share ‘em now.”

She looked past him: the ledge kept going to their left, but looked like it narrowed. The light was too poor for her to see very far. It was the same in the other direction. “Who would build a tunnel to nowhere like this?”

Clint shook his head. “Did you notice the floor? The tunnel’s old. It was hand-dug. Could be this wasn’t here, not like this. Could be the tunnel’s older than the sewers.”

She squatted at the edge and looked over the side, looking as far as she could down one side of the drop-off, then the other. “Looks like there used to be stairs. Maybe this was dry.”

“It’s been flooding here more and more lately— I saw the signs as we came in.”

“Split up and each scout one side of the ledge?”

He shook his head again. “We can’t leave them like that.”

She glanced over her shoulder. She and Clint were keeping their voices down, but it wasn’t hard for the people to tell that something hadn’t gone according to plan. They wouldn’t be materially hurt if she and Clint told them to stay put for a while… but it could get messy if they panicked. “If there were stairs across, then there should be another tunnel on the other side. If it hasn’t collapsed. Can you see?”

He was already staring hard in that direction. “Maybe,” he said slowly, after a minute. “I need a mirror.”

She backed through the crowd of people they were rescuing, who were starting to murmur. Some of them looked panicked. One or two were gagging from the smell. “Does anyone have a mirror?”

“You want to do your makeup at a time like this?” a woman snapped.

Natasha quelled her with a look.

“A mirror. Does anyone have one,” she repeated, slipping past along the edge of the ledge—

someone bumped her and sent her over the edge.

She threw herself towards the wall, but her feet were already sliding over the stone. Someone reached for her but she deliberately didn’t grab them— they were untrained civilians, they’d only get hurt— her side scraped along the edge of the rock— she managed to shed enough speed to grab the edge with one hand as she went down— that arrested her fall enough that she could reach around and get her other hand back on the ledge, back against the rock— the smell was worse from here, and she didn’t look down at the drop— she tilted her head back to make sure she had space, braced her feet against the rock, pushed down with her hands, and flipped up, until she was standing on her hands on the edge. Then she lowered herself back down to the ledge. The whole thing took about three seconds.

Everyone was staring at her. Silently, one woman reached into the bag slung across her back and handed Natasha a compact. Then they parted to let her through again— they were so crowded on the ledge Clint had only gotten halfway to her before she’d gotten herself back up.

Civilians. Impressed by the most trivial things.

She pried the mirror from its backing, gave it to him, and waited to see how he would use it. He took a strand of paracord from his pocket and wrapped it around the mirror, around the shaft of an arrow, several times. The back of the mirror was still sticky, which helped. He put a tip on the shaft, nocked the arrow, braced his feet, took a breath, and shot. The arrow flew across the water, the tip wedging itself into a crack on the other side. She could barely make out the mirror, but she knew he could.

He tilted his head, trying to find the right angle to get the reflection he wanted. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s another tunnel on that side. Goes up.” He absentmindedly wrapped the rest of the cord around his fingers.

“We can’t swing across with all those people.” She kept her voice low. “One of them will fall.” Then she or Clint would have to go in to fish them out, and the disgust factor aside, anyone who went in would inevitably get very sick. Who knew how long it would be before they got to safety? And even if Clint could find an anchor point in the ceiling, would it stay for twenty-five swings across and twenty-five swings back?

“So we’ll hold on to ‘em tight.”

“They’ll squirm. There’re kids.”

He looked at her. “You got a better idea?”

She stared at the other side. “How much rope do you have?”

“Another bundle. 250.”

She fingered her belt absentmindedly. “Send me across. If the tunnel doesn’t go anywhere, there won’t be room for everyone on the other side.”

Clint nocked another arrow and aimed up. Then he narrowed his eyes and stared across. “There is some kind of hook, metal loop, driven into the rock there. Think they had some sort of rope to help people get up from the bottom.”

“Great, we’ll tie in there.”

“Not sure this is an improvement.”

“It can work.”

“I’m gonna need a boost,” he said, after a minute.

She crouched down so he could step onto her shoulders, and then straightened up and turned. He grunted, apparently not satisfied, but if he climbed up the wall, he wouldn’t have room to draw. She stayed steady and still as she felt him draw, inhale, hold the breath, and then shoot. The arrow arched across and down, landing deep in the rock at the bottom of the narrow ledge on the other side.

He steadied himself against the wall and jumped down, the force of one hundred eighty pounds of archer momentarily jolting her. He wrapped the rope around a chunk of rock a few times. “’s not much of a slope.”

“I’ll work with it.” She tugged the bracelets from her belt, pulled the cord out of one, and fastened it into the other.

“Are those  _garrote bracelets_ ?”

“It's just a prototype. Give me more rope.” She took the thin strand of paracord from him, tied one end to the cord joining the bracelets, and handed the other end back. “You have it?”

“Yeah.”

She fastened the bracelet around one wrist, stood with her back to the drop, tugged the other bracelet over the long line so the short cord between the bracelets dangled from it, and fastened the other around her other wrists. R&D had promised her she could do all sorts of creative things with these in combat, even taking down multiple opponents at once. She'd kind of liked the idea of dragging her enemies around on a leash. Time to see if they stood up to punishment as well as promised. She bounced against the rope a few times to make sure the arrow and Clint’s knot would both hold  _before_ she was over the sewage river, then started her backwards, upside-down trek. Like a sloth. Except she wasn’t going down to shit, she was going  _over_ the shit.

She reached the other side without incident. There wasn’t much room to climb down; the narrowness of the ledge on the other side was another reason she’d proposed the rope bridge. She found safe footing and knelt to examine the arrow. She transferred the long line from the arrow shaft to the loop in the wall, straightened up, and ducked into the tunnel Clint had seen.

She expected it to slope up, but it didn’t. She stood still and tried to feel the air stirring her hair, but she didn’t notice any drafts. She took out her flashlight and let the beam play out in front of her: the tunnel was narrow, smaller than the other one, and the floor was full of rubble. That meant the tunnel was potentially unstable.

She kept going, watching the darkness up ahead and the rubble below for any clues of where the tunnel went, listening for any sign that something behind her was wrong. The floor was still flat, and she didn’t hear any running water. She tried to use her mental map of the area to figure out where she was. Would it be safe to hole up in the tunnel, knowing it took them somewhat out of the danger zone, and worry about getting to the top later? They weren’t  _that_ far from the surface. If they could seal themselves in, hide now and find a way out later-- No; that would be foolish. Clint setting off an explosive arrow in a space like this would be a terrible idea.

She heard a  _thud_ behind her, and for a minute thought he had. The reverberations were wrong, not enough echo— but something was wrong back there. She turned off the flashlight and ran silently back the way she’d come, relying on the very, very faint light from the underground channel, which was open to the sky in a few places far above, to guide her. She listened for screaming or sounds of distress, but there was nothing. What the hell was going on--

Another  _thud_ a few moments later, then voices that she couldn’t place because of the echoes. It was a tense two minutes, and yet another  _thud_ , before she barreled around the last bend in the tunnel— and skidded to a silent stop. There were three people standing on  _this_ side. Three of the civilians they were rescuing. 

She watched over their shoulder as a fourth slid down the rope, fastened into the makeshift zipline. She looked across the channel: Clint had moved everyone past him on the ledge, so that he could help people onto the rope but was still between the tunnel and the civilians. “What’s going on?”

The three— four, now, the man  _thud_ ded against the rock, and Natasha reached forward to pull him up— jumped, and one nearly fell off the ledge. “Where’d you come from?”

Natasha gave her a blank, unimpressed look. “Why are we moving?” She unfastened the bracelets from the man's wrists. Clint tugged on the line in his hand, and the bracelets went back towards him.

“Noises,” said the woman who had kept the other woman from falling. “In the tunnel. Your partner said maybe the terrorists.”

They wouldn’t all fit on the ledge. They were almost out of room as it was. “Here.” She shoved her flashlight into the hand of the man closest to the tunnel entrance. “Start walking. Count your steps. Stop after a hundred or if you hear or see  _anything_ out of place. And stay quiet. You three, follow him.” 

Clint got the next person fastened in and sent him across. This was going to take forever. And what about the kids? She helped the man off the rope and sent him into the tunnel. She listened to hear what had made Clint decide to move people now, but it was too faint for her to make out on this end.

So instead she watched the darkness to Clint’s left, the way they’d come. That was the likeliest way the terrorists would come. Eventually, the terrorists were going to figure out that there weren’t nearly enough bodies. Was a high body count what they were after? Or did they want to take control of the station to broadcast their message? The two weren’t mutually exclusive; if they wanted the airwaves to inspire fear and terror, having dead bodies in the background of their broadcast would only help.

She listened behind her for any sound that something was wrong, but all she heard were faint footsteps. They weren’t being nearly as loud as she’d expected. Not bad for civilians. Clint kept sending the people across, and she kept sending them back into the tunnels.

He hadn’t sent any of the kids across. From the way the remaining adults were watching them, they were probably the parents. If there was going to be a problem getting the kids across, they needed to know  _now_ . As if he were reading her mind, Clint knelt until he was eye-level with the nearest little girl, talking to her. She knew he had to be tense with impatience, aware of the necessity to cross quickly, but he stayed like that until she nodded. He clipped her wrists into the bracelets, helped her get her legs wrapped around the rope, and gave her a push to get her going.

Natasha caught her and held her steady until she could get out, then pointed her towards the tunnel with the others. So far, so good. But the next kid balked, and shook her head. The adult who must have been her parent crouched down to talk to her, and then to Clint; Clint just shook his head, and turned to the next kid. Even from here, she could see the woman throw a quiet shitfit. Whatever Clint said to her, short and sharp, shut her up. Clint boosted up the next boy, and clipped him into the bracelets.

They got most of the rest across without trouble, and then it was down to Clint and two kids who had balked. They’d wasted valuable time while he argued with their parents, convincing them to go across without their kids. Now she watched as Clint used some of the little rope they had left to tie the first kid to him. Then he crawled out above the channel, and cautiously went hand over hand to the other side, the kid balanced on his chest. She reached out and grabbed them as soon as they were within reach, but Clint didn’t let go of the rope, just hung on while she pulled the kid off of him. She pointed the kid towards the tunnel mouth. She needn’t have worried; the kid’s dad hadn’t followed the others inside, but came out of the mouth to grab his daughter. She gave him a stern look and pointed firmly towards the tunnel. He nodded, looking cowed, and pushed his daughter ahead of him.

She heard glass breaking in the distance.  _Damn it_ . They were coming. She beckoned to Clint:  _HURRY UP._ He nodded once.

Getting the jitters would be worse than useless, so she didn’t, but she had to breathe carefully to keep from tensing up as Clint crawled across the rope one last time. Logically, it was not much more likely that something would go wrong on this trip than on any of the others— he’d done more physically challenging things than this, so it wasn’t likely he’d fumble from fatigue, and they’d both tested their end of the rope for security— but it seemed inevitable that some catastrophe would happen. When Clint and the kid reached the end, she almost wasted an unacceptable half-second, she was so caught up in the alternate version where they didn’t make it. But her body moved on auto-pilot, and she hauled them over the edge as Clint got out of the bracelets and stuck them in her pocket. She pushed the kid toward the tunnel as Clint nocked an arrow. She untied the rope from this end and held it taut. The arrow arced across the river and sliced through the knot; she tugged on the rope until the other end slithered off the rock and fell in the water, then dropped her end as well. The  _splash_ seemed to echo loudly. The arrow, and a fragment of rope, was still on the other side; no helping that now. With good lights, the terrorists would be able to see the whole ledge from the tunnel exit. They’d have no reason to move down the ledge and find the arrow and the piece of rope.

She was the last one off the ledge. She heard Clint quietly moving past the civilians; someone with good eyes and a weapon needed to be in front. Natasha pushed the kid firmly in front of her and kept her moving. They were still in danger.

They got about twelve feet back in the tunnel, and then stopped. There were people as far as she could see, so it was something up ahead. Clint could handle it. She watched the end of the tunnel and  _listened_ . But—

damn it, where was the kid’s dad? She was snuffling and snorting so loudly that Natasha couldn’t hear what was going on across the channel. Natasha turned around and gestured, fiercely, for her to be quiet. The girl screwed up her face, but at least breathed more quietly.

But there was just too much noise from all the bodies behind her. Even if they tried to be quiet, they were all breathing. Some of them were shifting infinitesimally, with accompanying rustling of clothing. She crept back down to the end of the tunnel and flattened herself against the floor. She would blend in with the dark shadows.

Yes: she heard voices. They were soft and far off, but they were getting louder. She couldn’t make out the words, or tell how many voices there were. She leaned forward—

_DAMN it_ .

She wriggled backwards until she could move without fear of being seen, and made a fierce chopping gesture across her neck as soon as she caught the girl’s eye. Whatever was going on up ahead had caught the attention of the others nearby, and none of them were paying any attention to how much noise the girl was making. When the volume did not noticeably decrease, Natasha came back to the rest of the group, crouched beside the kid, and pulled her ear down to Natasha’s mouth. “Shut up,” she hissed. “You need to be quiet now.”

The kid sniffled and whined a little more softly, but then she swallowed, coughed, and opened her mouth. Natasha could hear the voices on the other side of the channel, even over the noise, because they were getting louder—

She briefly considered knocking the girl out, but force to incapacitate was more finicky than force to kill. There was always the chance that she might miscalculate— use too little— and instead make her scream.

The kid would get them all killed if she wouldn’t stay quiet.

A dead child would make no noise.

It wouldn’t be difficult— a quick snap of the neck, and Natasha could save them all. Could she—

No.

She wasn’t that person any more.

Could she have done it if Clint weren’t there, looking over her shoulder?

_No_ .

She was willing to risk all their lives in a firefight rather than take the precaution that would save them. That was what going  _good_ did to you. It made you irrational.

She didn’t  _want_ to kill the girl. She’d never wanted to kill a child. But she was afraid of killing them all by being soft.

Clint would never forgive her, it went without saying. He would try to get her kicked out of S.H.I.E.L.D. He might even try to kill her himself. Did he think he still held her life in the palm of his hand, in the surety of his second and third fingers on his left hand? But the rest of them would be alive.

But she didn’t owe that to anyone any more, to put that kind of mark on her— on her soul— or in her ledger. She was worth enough to herself to think twice about doing that. She was worth enough to herself to be able to look in the mirror tomorrow morning.

If she lived that long.

“Shh, shh shh,” she whispered to the little girl, and started to hum, very softly, an old lullaby, without thinking too closely about where she knew it from. “Shh,  _kotenok_ .” She wouldn’t think about why that word rose so readily to her lips, when it was a ridiculous thing for her to say. She wouldn’t think about why the lullaby reminded her of it. She wouldn’t think about being in the dark, with someone murmuring the same words to get her to sleep—

_Stop it_ .

That girl was dead and nameless. Natasha Romanoff was here and now.

But this girl was not dead, and she had a name even if Natasha didn’t know it. She deserved to live. Gently, Natasha pressed one finger to the girl’s lips. “I need you to be quiet,” she whispered.

“Daddy,” the girl whimpered.

Natasha pressed more firmly. “He’s not far. We’ll find him. But first, you need to be quiet.” Carefully, she added a second finger, keeping the tips of her fingers well away from the girl’s nostrils. Her hot breath  _whuffled_ in and out, but at least now the only noise she was making was her shaky breathing. “Good. Like that.”

The girl was quieter now. She probably wouldn’t give them away. But Natasha needed to be  _there_ , at the entrance to the tunnel, watching and listening. She was their rear guard, damn it, and she was stuck here keeping a kid quiet to prevent them all from being killed.  _Clint_ would have known how to handle this.

She heard quiet movement. When she looked up, the tunnel was emptying of people: the logjam was moving again. She turned the girl around and gave her a very gentle push in the direction the rest were traveling. “Go,” she murmured, mouth against her ear. The little girl’s hair tickled her nose.

The girl looked back and screwed up her face again like she was going to cry. Natasha shook her head, and put her finger back over the girl’s lips. “ _Go_ . Catch up with them. You don’t need me.” 

Finally, the girl stumbled into motion. Natasha watched long enough to make sure she gained on the last person who was disappearing into the gloom, then wriggled back towards the mouth of the tunnel.

The smell of the sewage wafted up to her. She saw people moving on the other side. Their voices drifted across: “… lamp,” one of them said.

“Don’t know, maybe it had been there a long time.”

“Where the  _hell_ did the people go? They didn’t vanish. They must have come down here.”

“We didn’t hear anyone, we didn’t see anyone.”

“Then where are they?”

They came up on the spot where she, Clint, and the civilians had crossed the channel, with the arrow and rope on the floor. They stepped over it and kept going.

“I’m telling you, they didn’t come down here,” the woman said after a minute. “Where would they have gone? This ledge runs straight. They certainly didn’t swim across. How would they get all the people down here?”

“Yes, but where else could they be?” The man trained his flashlight more squarely along the ledge, trying to see what was beyond the shadows.

“Maybe they had gone home for the day.”

“We’re not turning around until we know they’re not down here.” He strode firmly ahead.

Natasha watched them with interest: how far  _did_ the ledge go? The bobbing figure-eight of light from the two flashlights moved down the rock. Behind her, she didn’t hear the civilians moving any more. Did that mean they’d gotten far away?

“This is a dead end,” the woman said. “If they were ahead, we would see them and hear them. There’s nothing.”

“I thought I heard something a few minutes ago,” the man said. “Crying. It came from up ahead.”

“Look, this is crazy. They need us upstairs. Someone got onto the roof and killed the two up there. They need all of us upstairs.”

“And then where did that mysterious person go, if they were capable of taking both Jaroslav and Pavel? Why haven’t we found them?”

They stopped, but she couldn’t see why. Their voices were harder to hear— they were significantly past the tunnel mouth. “Stairs down to the water. They’re not down there.”

“No,” the man said slowly, reluctantly, after a minute. “They’re not.”

“We should go back.” Without waiting for him, she turned and walked towards the mouth of the tunnel on that side. After a few more seconds, the man turned around and caught up with her. “Maybe special forces are already here,” she suggested. “Maybe it was French commandos.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a satellite office of the embassy. They’re paper-pushers, not commandos.”

“Then what do  _you_ think happened?”

The man was slow to respond. Natasha saw him glance sideways. “It’s possible we have a traitor.”

The woman responded with her own sideways glance.

“It’s possible we are safer down here,” the man added. “We—“ He tripped and nearly fell into the water. The woman steadied him. He looked down, then crouched, and picked up— Clint’s arrow.

_Damn it._

He and the woman both looked at it, then each other. “There is a dig not far from here,” the woman said. “I saw it when we scouted the place. They have arrows.”

“Arrows like this?” He tried to wiggle the shaft, but it didn’t bend. He frowned, looking across the channel. Natasha knew he couldn’t see into the darkness of the tunnel, but he was looking right at her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She joined him, looking over the edge.

With them leaning over the edge, Natasha could drop them both in such a way that their bodies would fall in. If they never came back, then someone would come looking for them, but how hard would they look down here? Whether that would invite more or less scrutiny than letting the two of them go back and report depended on what they would say.

“They’re not all down there,” the woman said. “Maybe they tried to swim out?”

“If there is another way out of here,” the man said, “then we could escape the police. It would have an even greater impact when we resurfaced in Prague a week later.”

“Pavel said there would be a helicopter.”

“Pavel said a lot of things. He was our talking man. Now he’s dead, and he won’t be saying any more. I don’t think that roof can support a helicopter collapsed like it is.” He looked at the arrow thoughtfully. “If we find where our little chickens flew the coop, we can save ourselves.”

“I don’t understand the arrow, but they couldn’t have escaped with just an arrow. And where did it come from, if not from the same ruins they are excavating?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It looks very... new.”

“That water is flowing. There  _is_ a way out of here. If we go back to the end of the ledge, we might see a path in the rocks.”

Natasha waited with dwindling patience as they retraced their steps again and went back to the stairs. She needed to know what was going on behind her. They stood side-by-side and looked down the steps to the water. “The water has risen,” the woman said finally. “Or it used to be cleaner, and someone kept a boat here. There is a ring, do you see?”

The man nodded.

“I don’t see a way out. We should go back.”

“All right,” the man said after a minute. They turned around yet again and went back the way they’d come. After a few minutes, their flashlights vanished into the tunnel leading to the basement.

She waited to be sure they weren’t coming back, then stood. She had to feel her way with a hand on each wall, and step carefully. The tunnel got warmer as she went forward. It was several minutes before she heard any noise from ahead, which was encouraging: they’d made progress. Clint wouldn’t have kept going if he didn’t think there was a way out.

The girl was no longer at the end of the line; her father must have reclaimed her. Natasha walked silently behind the last person in line, letting her eyes adjust to the very dim light several people ahead. “What’s the news from ahead?” she murmured after a minute or so.

The woman in front of her jumped and nearly fell. Natasha grabbed her under the arms until she could find her feet. The woman’s eyes were wide and she was breathing hard from the shock, but she answered the question: “Your, your, the other— the man said he smelled a way out.” She shrugged helplessly.

_Smelled_ a way out? Was Clint going for a new code name, that celebrated another of his five senses? 

The woman dusted herself off. “What about back there?”

“There’s no one following us.” If the suspicious man decided it was possible they were across the channel, though, that might change.

The woman gave Natasha another scared look— did she think Natasha had killed their pursuit?— but turned around and kept going.

They seemed to walk for a very long time, though Natasha knew it was only about twenty minutes. She lingered behind the others and listened for any sounds behind them, away from the quiet shuffling of so many pairs of feet. The people they were shepherding were being very, very good, staying as quiet as they could. They stopped again; she wasn’t sure why until she heard murmuring. In the dim light, she saw heads turning sequentially, and then understood when the woman in front of her turned said, “The man is asking for you up there.”

It was a tight squeeze to get past everyone. The tunnel opened up; the last three people were standing at the back of a cave with Clint. It was a long cave, sloping up, and she couldn’t see the mouth, but she could see the light it produced.

He motioned for the others to back up into the tunnel. “What’s back there?” he murmured, mouth close to her ear.

“Two people came looking for us. They found your arrow, but couldn’t find a way across. They went back. Up here?”

“Followed the draft up here, but there’s someone standing out front— I think. Something about the light. Coincidence, or they’re staking out the exit.”

She flattened herself on the ground, a gun in each hand, and slowly wriggled forward, lifting each part of her body instead of sliding, which would make more noise. She heard the quiet  _click_ of Clint getting an arrowhead from his quiver. 

She got far enough forward to see over the sloping floor. Clint was right: there were four sets of boots in front of the mouth of the cave, but they were facing away. They were expecting someone to come in, not out. Judging by the boots, they were with the group who’d blown up the building: the average resident of Brno didn’t wear new combat boots, and she saw the strap of an ankle sheath on one of them.

She stretched her hand backwards and showed four fingers. She pointed towards herself, then towards him, then approximated a shrug as well as she could. He tapped her open palm with two fingers:  _Together._

She wriggled up further, silently. A quick look back showed Clint with an arrow on the string, aimed at the set of legs on the far right, waiting. It was difficult to get right to the mouth of the cave and get her legs under her without making noise. She paused, then lunged out, crashing into a pair of legs and bringing the person attached to the ground.

More body armor and rifles. The guns wouldn’t help them at close quarters. She slit the throat of the man she’d tackled and rolled out from under him. Clint’s arrow came out of the cave at an angle and killed the woman on the end, going through her neck. He climbed out of the cave-- Natasha grabbed the man on the left, but he was prepared— he used his greater size to drag her towards him, putting her off-balance. An arrow sprouted in his throat. She whirled, got a grip on the last man, whom Clint was grappling with, and snapped his neck. It took about twenty seconds. No one had made any noise.

Clint was scanning the area. She hauled the bodies away from the mouth of the cave. “It looks clear,” he murmured.

“I saw some more buildings that way as we came in. If we can make it to those, we can keep the people safe.”

She stood guard as he crawled back to get everyone out. Once everyone was above-ground, she took point, running silently through the trees. It was twilight— harder for them to be seen, but harder for her to see, and if the terrorists had infrareds, their group would light them up.

She was about five meters in front of the group. They were making more noise now, running instead of feeling their way through a tunnel. She slowed as she came over the rise—

There were nine men waiting below. She killed one with a knife. Another saw her. His shout eliminated the need to warn Clint. She dove down the slope, firing as she went, and dropped two more. The others concentrated their fire on her— terrible odds— she dove for cover. Their bullets hit the tree, but she couldn’t stop moving— half the trees were rotten, and they wouldn’t stop the bullets for long.

She risked sticking her head up to see one holding a walkie-talkie, and got off a wild shot that killed him. Five left. She grabbed the nearest bough— a rotten log exploded from gunfire and sent wood chunks into her leg— and hauled herself up, keeping the main trunk between her and her attackers, but if they were smart they would circle—

She ran along the limb on the other side and dropped from above into the middle of them. She grabbed one of them as a shield and put him between her and the rest. An arrow took two of them together, and another followed it, killing the man going for a dropped rifle. The man she’d grabbed tried to strangle her. She went for his eyes, then shot him. As the body fell, she saw Clint standing over the last downed man, bloodied arrow in his right hand.

“There’ll be more,” she said.

Their refugees made little cries of horror as they shepherded them over the hill, from the bodies, or the fact that she and Clint were spattered in blood, or both. She saw more than one look of terror directed her way. She couldn’t help that now. Easier to get these people to safety than try to convince them she was any better than the people trying to kill them.

They got out of the trees without encountering any more opposition. The buildings were empty and locked. Clint stood guard while she picked the lock. It was an old house that had been converted to offices. When the last person was inside, they shut and locked the door. “Stay away from the windows,” Clint ordered, and headed for the stairs.

The earpieces had been dead underground, and disturbingly slow to start working again. She tapped hers several times in quick succession. “Coulson!”

No answer.

“This is the Widow. Does anyone copy?”

Sitwell's voice: “Delta! We've been trying to raise you, there's a situation and we need you--”

“We know. We're nearby. Update me.”

“The building’s been taken by terrorists. They’re claiming to have the employees and their children hostage. They won’t release them unless the government gives them safe passage out of the country, and rebroadcasts their message. We need you to get in--”

Natasha smiled. “They’re lying. We smuggled everyone out through the tunnels.”

There was a  _long_ pause from the other end. “Everyone?” It was Coulson's voice now. Multiple voices were talking quickly in the background.

“Everyone we could find. We have twenty-five. Give me a minute, I’ll ask them if anyone’s missing.”

The people were still staring at her with wide eyes, but she got an answer out of one of them and passed it along: “Everyone in the building is here.”

That was-- that was  _cheering_ from the other end of the line. What on earth?

“I’m pulling your location now,” Sitwell said. “We’ll have transport there within fifteen.”

Fifteen turned into thirty— realizing that their bluff had failed, the terrorists put down heavy fire. The building was shaking by the time a heavy truck pulled up on the other side. It took two trips to get everyone. Clint and Natasha crowded into the back of the second truck. She crouched near the open door with a gun in each hand; he stood over her with an arrow on the string.

But no one intercepted them. They pulled up to an old theater just outside the controlled zone that, judging from the news trucks and police barricades outside, was both the command center and the press headquarters. The two of them followed the twenty-five rescuees inside through the back door, then slipped off before they encountered any reporters. But Clint didn't immediately head for the door again, so she followed him.

He found a balcony above the auditorium proper. Reporters and families were waiting together. They slipped onto the balcony just as the first one of their rescuees filed out. There was a second of stunned silence, and then flashes started going off and people started shrieking in— ecstatic shock, overwhelming joy. The sobs of relief followed almost immediately.

She watched as all the survivors— exhausted, muddied, bandaged in a couple of places— pushed past the press. The reporters were filming, some probably streaming on their phones, so whoever wasn’t here would know about it soon. She watched a man throw his arms around his— wife, sister, best friend?— and hang on like she was his salvation.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

She looked over at Clint and saw the half-smile on his face. She hesitated. But it was just the two of them, half-concealed in the dark, dusty curtains on the dim balcony halfway up the back wall, so she said, “Yeah.”

“We did good.”

She bit back her smile. “Enough with the pep talks and inspirational speeches already, or I’m going to think you ate a cheerleader.”

Clint looked at her. “That’s not,” he said after a minute, “really how that works.”

“How do you know, have you tried?”

He didn’t dignify that with response. “Let’s get out of here before someone starts asking questions.”

_I was ready to go before you needed an infusion of warm fuzzy feelings._ But she'd... she'd liked seeing the reunion, too. Most of their missions did not end with screams of joy.

Halfway down the upstairs hallway, she tugged him into a single-occupancy bathroom and closed the door. They were both covered in blood, but two minutes got the worst of it off of both of them; the rest was against their clothes, hidden unless you looked closely. There were people coming up the stairs at one end as they reached the set at the other, but they made it downstairs and to the tiny alley behind the theater before they were noticed.

They got clear and called in. Sitwell, sounding both impressed and exasperated— which was hardly deserved— told them to go to ground and “ _stay there_ . We’ll have transport for you within the hour. We have a team on the way to assist the Czech government with questioning the terrorists and checking out the scene.”

“You’re welcome,” Natasha told him before she hung up.

They caught a cab to near the airfield Sitwell had directed them to, and found a quiet rooftop on which to wait. She pulled up her trouser leg and checked the damage from the log, fishing out chunks of wood and pressing down to stop the bleeding.

“That second group was waiting for us,” he said after a few minutes.

“The two that came after us were suspicious. I think they heard the girl. They may have figured out there was a tunnel on the other side and sent someone out when they lost contact with the four by the cave.”

He nodded.

“I—“ she glanced at him.

“Hmm?”

“I thought about killing her.”

Clint frowned, uncomprehending.

“The girl. To keep her quiet.”

He blinked, and then looked poleaxed. Then he stared at her like she’d grown a second head, a hideous one. “Jesus, Tasha.”

Apparently there  _was_ a line, and she’d crossed it. Well— it had been sure to happen eventually.

What would he have done? Clint would never have even considered killing the kid. He didn’t come from that world. No, he would have been willing to do something self-sacrificial and unpleasant as well, but for him, it would have been more like going out in a blaze of glory and sewage to save everyone else after the crying kid told the terrorists where they all were.

Why had she told him? Because she was too proud to pretend to be better than she was.

He was still staring at her like she fascinated and frightened him. “Would you have done it?”

She thought about that for a minute, and then another minute. She  _could_ have done it.  _Would_ she have done it?

She shrugged. “I don’t know.” The expression on his face hurt her more than she wanted to admit, to him or to herself. She couldn’t find the words to explain to him why she’d been willing to do it, and she was too proud to remind him that she’d been made this way. Wasn’t she always reminding herself that she’d remade herself?

She knew how Clint was about kids. She shouldn’t be surprised that this was the line.  _Just now realizing what kind of monster you brought home, Barton?_

“It was a foolish idea, the rest of ‘em never would have come with us. Christ, Natasha, her  _father_ was there!”

“I would have made it look like an accident. I’m not an  _amateur_ .”

“No. You’re very good at what you do. And willing to do it.”

“One of those bullets could easily have hit one of the people we got out,” she snapped. “If they’d heard her more clearly, they would have had more people waiting. They might even have tried to blow up the tunnel.”

“And if you’d  _killed her_ , that would have been better?”

“Better than having more people die, if I had to make that call, yes! This is just like Panama all over again.”

“And I was  _right_ in Panama. Damn it, Natasha, people aren’t expendable!”

_“Some of us are!”_

The silence was thick. She hadn’t meant to use such a revealing pronoun.

“You’re not,” he said.

“You know damn well Fury would spend my life, and yours, if he needed to.”

“You’re not Fury,” he said, “and that girl’s not you. She’s an innocent. They were willing to kill her, too, for their own ends, you know. Is that what you wanted, you wanted to be like them?”

“I never wanted to do any of it!” Her snarl cracked with anger. Maybe with something else.  _I never wanted to do any of it._ But if this was the end, then she was determined to drag it all out into the open. She’d actually started to believe his faith in her _._ Apparently, it had been built on na ï veté. 

She was determined to destroy it. “You know I’ve killed children,” she said. “Of my own volition. After I escaped the Red Room. I took jobs like that to get the money to save the others. The other  _children._ ” She knew he knew it. Did he try not to think about it? If this was the way it was going to go, then she wouldn’t let him slide by on lies of omission like that.

“Yeah, and how’d that work out for you?”

“With S.H.I.E.L.D. getting every single one of them killed,” she snarled. “With corpses of five-year-olds strewn around the room. You  _know_ how it went.”

“Look, maybe I got no right to lecture you, I murdered an old man when I was seventeen, but—“

“Wounding someone who’s later killed by someone else is  _not_ murder,” she snapped.

He looked confused, then betrayed and angry. “Did I dig into  _your_ file?” he demanded.

“I wanted to make sure your foster parents weren’t fostering any more!”

He stared at her, and she couldn’t interpret his expression.

There was a long moment of silence. “Coulson once told me… it’s not about you, it’s about the others,” she said.

“That sounds like Coulson.”

“That was right after he let me torture a rapist, so I’m not sure what I was supposed to take away from that, actually.”

“Coulson let you torture a rapist?”

“We went,” she said, “way back.”

“Whether it was my arrow that killed ‘im,” he said after a minute, “or Trick Shot came back and finished him off—“

“He did.”

“— I still could’ve saved him, and I didn’t. So maybe that gives me no right to, to tell you what you thought was wrong, but damn it, Tasha, it  _was_ .”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said into the thick, heavy silence. “I didn’t do it.”

He couldn’t argue that, but he was still staring at her like she was— Modok, or something. Perhaps he wasn’t far wrong.

“It’s not all bad,” she said after a minute.

“ _What’s_ not all bad?”

“As long as I’m around, whenever you get your 'guilt' complexes over your 'ledger'”— she used air quotes— “you can look at me and think, at least I’m not  _her_ \--”

“Fuck  _off_ ,” Clint bit out.

They sat in heavy silence as the S.H.I.E.L.D. plane landed. The crew offloaded the cargo, then loaded the equally tall stack of things beside the runway. Apparently the Czech government had a lot to send to S.H.I.E.L.D. By the time everything was onboard, there was barely any room inside for the two of them. There was a bit of bench along one bulkhead, and narrow paths from the ramp to the cockpit and the emergency equipment. She let Clint have the bench and sat cross-legged on top of one of the sturdier boxes. He took one of the tablets from its secure rack along the bulkhead— generally used for inventory, but with access to the entire S.H.I.E.L.D. infrastructure— and busied himself with something he was reading on it.

She braced herself against the bulkhead as they took off. The plane handled sluggishly due to the weight, and the boxes around her didn’t even shift. Whatever was in them was extremely dense. She watched Clint for a while. He didn’t look up. She leaned over and took the other tablet, putting uncomfortable pressure on her lacerated calf in the process, and pulled up her file to see if there were any missions stacked and waiting for her when they returned. There was nothing. Normally she would have been glad for the downtime— but right now, she could have used the distraction of a new dossier to learn.

She checked the news. Nothing had blown up that looked like it might require her— their— attention. It was difficult to concentrate. She stopped making the effort. Instead she went back to watching Clint over the top of the tablet and didn’t care if he knew it. Of course he knew it, he was Hawkeye. He was also Clint, whom she trusted, who wouldn’t hurt her— if he thought he could help it. She swallowed a yawn. She just wanted to sleep. But she would not, could not, close her eyes and sleep in front of him, not right now. Watching him, watching as he glanced up, she saw that he knew that, too. She didn’t care. The voices of the Red Room were too loud right now. He didn’t look up again.

She shifted positions on top of the box. Drawing her legs up to her knees was making the wounds on her calf open up again. She moved to the top of the next box and stretched her leg out. It was still uncomfortable, but at least it was a new discomfort.

She checked the news again, looking to see how what they’d just left had been spun. The headline surprised a laugh out of her. He looked up quickly. She leaned sideways, precariously, to pass him the tablet. He snorted softly as he read it.  _Anonymous heroes save twenty-five_ . It wasn’t often she was called a hero.

He handed the tablet back. “They have our faces.”

“I know.” She hadn’t seen any of the people they’d rescued taking pictures, but they could still probably ID Natasha and Clint from photographs if someone else provided them. If anyone did have pictures of them and could guess, based on the description of events, that they’d been involved, then she and Clint were in trouble. “If you piss off Doctor Wilbur again, maybe he’ll give you cosmetic surgery for free.”

He laughed, and looked startled. She didn’t smile, but felt like a little of the tension was gone. There'd been no laughter in the Red Room. She wriggled around, trying to find a comfortable position on the boxes. Maybe she could close her eyes now.

*

He read for a while. It wasn’t a riveting book. But he didn’t want to think about what had happened back there.

Did he really think she maybe had a point? Or was he just in denial because he— well, because he liked her?

He knew she thought she was right, that she earnestly believed that— what she’d considered doing was-- was logically justifiable. But that didn’t mean she  _was_ right. Trying to do good was fine, but didn’t amount to a pile of shit if you didn’t actually know what good was.

It wasn’t just a problem for her.

No, he really didn’t want to think about it.

He looked up at the noise of her shifting for the second time in five minutes. Usually her capacity for stillness approached his own, due to what had no doubt been extremely painful childhood training. She didn’t look comfortable, and she was holding her calf— the one she’d been doctoring on the roof— at an awkward angle. There was perhaps a foot of bench space to his left, and he was wedged against the bulkhead on his right. “You can sit here if you want. There’s a little room to stretch out.”

The unimpressed look she gave him was entirely undeserved. “I’m not going to take your spot.”

“Then sit  _on_ me and stretch out, Jesus, I don’t care.”

“You want me to sit on your  _lap_ ?”

He refrained from rolling his eyes, with difficulty. “I want you not to hurt yourself, but I'm sure you’ve got that covered admirably, so never mind.” This new problem between them wasn’t going to go away any time soon, was it.

She slid off the stack of the boxes and stood in the narrow aisle, looking down at him for a duration that was probably meant to be intimidating. He ignored her. “Not a word about this to anyone, ever,” she muttered.

“Nope.” He went back to his book. She turned, slid down until she could rest her back against the bulkhead, and stretched her leg out in the narrow space next to him. He moved his arm until he could see around her.

She sat like that, tense, for a while. “I mean it. If you tell anyone about this, I’ll hurt you.”

“Uh-huh.” He glanced at what she was watching: grainy security footage labeled BANGALORE LEELA PALACE 2-20-95. He had no idea why, but that was probably for the best.

He kept reading. She kept watching. After a while, she leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. She stank of blood and gunpowder, but so did he. The tablet slipped down her legs. After a few more minutes, she seemed to go to sleep.

He kept reading as her breathing became slow and deep. She jerked awake, jogging his arm in the process. She put her hand on her gun, which was concerning, but then saw where she was, and relaxed a bit.

He expected her to slide off to the floor, but she stayed where she was. Eventually, she let go of her gun and fell asleep again.

He adjusted his arm to compensate, and her whole body leaned against his. Her weight surprised him. He always forgot how physically small she was. She took up so much space in his head, and she could take down enemies much larger than herself-- and yet, there wasn’t actually that much of her.

She slumped farther down the bulkhead, and her head leaned against his chest. He carefully moved her head a bit so her hair wasn’t in the patch of drying blood. It made him feel kind of soft and warm that someone trusted him enough to  _sit on him_ and fall asleep, especially someone like Tasha, especially after what had happened on the roof. He wouldn’t be sharing those feelings. Nobody needed to know about his gooey caramel center.

This was why the Black Widow was so dangerous.  _He knew_ she had told him, not two hours ago, that she’d thought about killing the little girl so the rest of them could get away cleanly. She hadn’t lied to him or deceived him in any way about that. And yet, he was still letting her close enough to use him as a cushion. He knew her too well to write her off as just another terrible person who wanted to hurt kids, though he couldn’t deny, either, that she’d nearly done something terrible. That she  _had_ done other terrible things. It was always so dangerous to think that evil always came in readily recognizable forms, and that there was a clear delineation between good people and evil people. It was a seductive idea, that allowed people to let their guard down about themselves as long as they weren’t, say, beating their children and wife. 

Natasha had fooled a lot of people into thinking she couldn’t possibly do anything terrible because she was a petite, beautiful woman. That wouldn’t fool him. Their friendship might.

The last time he'd been fooled into thinking someone he cared about couldn't be bad, it had nearly killed him. He couldn't risk it happening again. But he was in so deep, now, that if--  _when?_ \-- one of these days she did something he couldn't let go, couldn't let slide... how much would it cost him to walk away?

There was a tiny, faint scar at the nape of her neck, just below her hairline. Another person probably wouldn’t have been able to see it. It didn’t look like the sort of thing you would get in a fight— too small to be from a bullet graze. It could be a knife scar, but for that to be the case, someone would have needed a very sharp blade that drew just a hairline thinness of blood. It  _did_ look like the sort of thing you would get if you had your skull cut open, first to torture you, then to save you.

Did he just not want to admit that there might be a situation where it was necessary to choose between one innocent life and twenty-four of them?

Her head fell even farther forward. He could have rested his chin on the crown of her head if he’d wanted to. He didn’t want to. Even if he had, he wasn’t foolish or selfish enough to try it. He thought back to the first time he’d ever seen her, scaling a wall to kill someone, and couldn’t help making a bemused face. This had not been in the cards. But he’d been dealt enough shitty hands that he wouldn’t hesitate to accept it when the luck swung in the other direction. Times like this, he wasn't entirely sure it had, but he couldn't deny the number of times she'd saved his ass. Just...  _will there be a price to pay for that, one day?_

He smelled something familiar— shampoo? No, it was the laundry detergent from her clothes, under the smells of dirt and blood and gunpowder. Why had he noticed? Because it was the same one Bobbi had used. He made a face and tried to breathe shallowly. He had a lot of memories associated with that smell. Some of them were good; others were of lying facedown on her bed, seriously contemplating smothering himself with her pillows. Or, even worse, sitting up to realize that Bobbi was crying. He’d hated,  _hated_ that his strong, fearless girlfriend— hated that  _this_ was what had managed to hurt her, that he hadn't wanted her like she'd wanted him to. And hated himself for it.  _What was I suppose to do? Just— go along— what, fake it— because—_

He wasn’t going to get anywhere thinking about that. It was over and done with.

“Why aren’t you breathing?” Nat muttered.

“I’m breathing.”

“Shallowly.” She sat up, all of her Black Widow brain awake behind the eyes that a moment ago had been closed in sleep. “What is it?”

“You can have my spot.” He managed to slide out from under her without needing her cooperation, and climbed to the top of a stack of crates.

“Clint.” She frowned, looking around.

“There’s no problem, Nat. We’re not in danger. Go back to sleep.”

She continued to watch him. He tried to ignore her, and focused on his book.

“What, do I smell?” she asked finally.

“Yeah.” He swiped for a new page. “Like my ex-girlfriend’s laundry detergent. Not something we need to talk about.”

After a minute or two, she finally stopped watching him, and went back to her tablet. “Does this look like Coulson to you?”

He frowned, but took it when she held it to him, and unpaused the grainy security feed she had playing on loop. “Yeah,” he said after studying it. “Looks like him, but he’s younger, maybe by… ten years?”

“Thirteen. If I’m right.”

He fell asleep leaning against the boxes behind him and woke up with a crick in his neck. It took them another hour to reach the Helicarrier. After the fight and the flight, even the cramped rooms and the tepid water were a welcome change. He grabbed a shower and checked his eyelids. He knew Natasha had been very careful getting the glass off of them, and that if she had missed anything he probably would have felt it— but he still shone a strong light on them, looking out from under his lashes for any glitter or glint in the light. That he trusted her to save his sight, contrasted with what he’d felt after her admission about the kid— just made him more confused. He still trusted her, more than anyone else except maybe Coulson. What did that say about  _him_ ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: In this chapter, a protagonist contemplates murdering a child.


	10. Interlude: Stalingrad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter contains graphic violence, leading to disturbing imagery (see end notes for details); violent death; references to child abuse; homophobia/biphobia

After Brno, they were sent to Abidjan, which turned into an epic clusterfuck and then a two-hour running gun battle outside U.N. headquarters. Her skin was still knitting itself back together when they sent her to Sochi to kidnap the son of an oil tycoon. It was trivial to catch his attention, and not much more difficult to talk him into bed with her. She got the syringe in his arm as he was distracted with his pants. It was a little harder to muscle his unconscious body out the window, but she’d come prepared, and the harness she’d brought allowed her to hold onto him and rappel down the building at the same time. His security detail had never clearly seen her face. 

The follow-up took her to a building in downtown Pittsburgh to steal records from an American shell company, whose controllers hadn’t covered their tracks carefully enough. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hackers had already scraped their servers clean, but someone was smart enough to keep documents on the other side of the air gap.

The building was closed for the weekend. She picked the lock and disabled the electronic security on a back door. Then she skulked around the cameras until she got to the main security controls and disabled those too, making it look like a software failure. Then she headed for the stairs.

The executive floor was silent, not even a breath of air stirring. She started in the COO's office and methodically searched the drawers, the backs and undersides of the drawers, the walls, and the backs of the bookcases for any hidden compartments. Nothing. She went back into the hallway towards the CEO's office. The smell of cleaning chemicals was faint, but perceptible. The janitors must have been here last night, and no one had disturbed the area since. That was reassuring. She picked the lock and stepped inside, gun up, surveying the room--

The first bullet missed her ear by a hair's breadth. The second went into her ribs as she dodged. Her uncontrolled fall took her behind the massive desk. She crashed into and broke a chair, then managed to get her gun up with her uninjured side. Her body was trying to distract her by screaming about pain and damage as she tracked her assailant: a woman, crouched on the far side of the long board table on the other side of the office. But from the direction of the shots, she’d been standing at— no, hiding behind— the computer. The fact that she’d anticipated Natasha’s duck and managed to hit her with the follow-up shot indicated that she was good. She held her fire— she knew Natasha was safe, for the minute, behind the desk. Not wasting her bullets was another sign of her skill.

Natasha looked around. The hard drive on the desk was out of place. The cable ran to a hard drive below. The light was still on-- it was still copying. So the woman was here for that. She kept still and whimpered, getting softer each time. Then she made her breathing as silent as she could. If-- the woman would come over to make sure she was dead, before she left. She'd never make it out the door fast enough. But if she could stay alive until then-- she could shoot the woman and get away.

Bullets thudded into the carpet right by her head. The other woman wasn't willing to risk her doing what she'd just decided to do. A pause, then a third winged her leg. She bit her tongue and tasted blood to keep herself silent. It hadn't hit a major blood vessel; that was all that mattered right now. But if the woman moved fast, Natasha wouldn't be able to get out of the way in time. She couldn't shoot her without leaning out of cover and exposing herself to someone who could move more quickly.

Reloading would be difficult with her side out of commission, so she made her shots count. It took two to bring down the light fixture above the computer. It crashed-- she heard a muffled cry of pain, then swearing.

She had to press her advantage. It was difficult to wrench a Widow's Bite off with one hand, and harder to lock it on. She needed to talk to R&D about making it easier for her to electrocute people from a distance. But first she needed to survive this. She tossed her little electric present up and over the desk—

The cry of pain was clear and angry this time. Quick movement--  _shit_ . “Why aren't you  _dead_ ?” the other woman snarled. She fired over the desk-- but Natasha was faster, and pulled back. Agony blossomed in her side anyway. Maybe she hadn't pulled back as fast as she'd thought.

She smiled, and tasted her own blood again. “I'm from Stalingrad, do you  _understand what that means_ ?” She recoiled-- those words weren't her own--  _No_ \-- 

Her rage gave her the strength to lunge on the good leg and tackle the woman to the ground. The movement stretched her side into agony. She needed her gun hand to prop her up-- she grabbed the chair and smashed it into the other woman's head. Once, twice, four times-- then sight and smell and sound told her she could stop.

Her whole body revolted. She fought down her vomit only by ruthlessly telling herself it would hurt worse. Her injured leg buckled completely, and she fell, blacking out briefly on impact.

Her side and her leg burned. Something warm pooled around her legs. She didn't know whose blood it was. Or maybe the corpse had released its bladder. It would be undignified, dying drenched in someone else's urine. That of all things irritated her into movement.

Her phone was dead. The bullet had taken it out. Her earpiece wouldn't respond. She forced herself to search the woman. She found a phone-- and, in her jacket, the folder of documents Natasha had been sent to steal. She didn't need all the copies. She only needed a copy.

She remembered the number she needed. She called. She gave the passphrase. She asked for extraction.

The agent on the other end asked her to describe her injuries. “Got shot.” Her voice was fading. She let the phone fall.

She wasn't done. She needed to cover her tracks.

A voice came out of the phone. She crawled for the door. A new voice: Coulson. “Talk to me, Agent.”

She kept all her energy for moving, but it was too much. Much too much. Much too far.

“Stay with me, Agent. That's an  _order_ .”

She would never make it to the elevator.

“Agent. Natasha.”

“Mmm,” she whispered, to shut him up. It didn't shut him up. She pulled off her other Bite. The movement made her want to throw up again. She locked it on. She threw it.

She crawled for the door.

Time dilated curiously. Coulson's voice, tinny from this distance, called for her to stay awake, stay with him, as he tried to talk her through it.  _Stalingrad_ echoed in her head.

_You are from Stalingrad. Do you understand what that means?_ A scream— Ivan’s scream. He was— no. He’d  _been_ from Stalingrad, old enough to call it that, born to a mother who had carried him during the battle. He’d singled her out because she’d been from the same city— so they told her— and beat her when she showed any sign of weakness.

She kept going.

_You are from Stalingrad! Do you understand what that means?!_ She felt his boots dig into her back.  _You do not surrender. You never surrender. You never give up! Now get up, you worthless garbage!_

In reality— or what passed for it in the Red Room— or at least in her tattered, patched, memory— she’d sat up and thrown him off. Now she just kept going. Ivan was dead. She was as good as... but she'd never known when to quit.

She smelled smoke. Death by smoke inhalation was much less painful than bleeding out. Which would kill her first?

_Keep. Crawling._

*

She came back to consciousness and felt like shit. That meant she was alive.

After a few minutes of that, she thought opening her eyes might provide a distraction. She was in a hospital bed with a bunch of electrodes taped to her, a needle in her hand, and another in her arm. From the way she felt she might have been held together by tape as well, she couldn’t tell. There was a heavy pain in her left side, even through the fuzzed edges of painkillers.

Barton was sitting by the bed. He put his fingers on the back of her hand when she tried to speak. “It’s Wednesday,” he said. “You’ve been out for twenty hours. They took a bullet out of your leg, one out of your spleen, and one out of your ribs— were you trying for a collection?”

It took a lot of energy to glare at him, but it was satisfying.

“You shouldn’t have any permanent damage.”

“Mmm.”

He reached out of her field of vision and held a cup of ice chips to her mouth. She was ragingly thirsty. He slid his other arm behind her shoulders, and helped her sit up just far enough so that she wouldn’t choke on the ice. “You scared Coulson,” he continued, more gently.

“Mmm.” The melting ice felt wonderful against her throat.

“The doctors declared you a medical miracle. Again. Are you trying for a collection of  _those_ ?”

She snorted, and then winced at the pain blossoming in her abdomen.

“Easy,” he said.

She was suddenly overwhelmingly grateful that Clint’d been there when she woke up. That-- After Brno, he'd still--

She felt warmth prickle in her eyes, and blinked quickly. She hated the way painkillers always made her overemotional and out of balance. Exhausted from the effort of sitting up, she slumped back against the bed. “Coffee,” she muttered.

“No.”

“Drugs.”

“That, we can do.” He pressed the button for the nurse.

The nurse came and gave her more painkillers. They were wonderful. They detached her from the raging pain, and from any concern about how emotional she might be. An alarm was sounding in the dark recesses of her mind, about the danger of being out of control, but she just ignored it.

“Coulson wanted to see you. When you were awake. Mind if I tell him you’re up?”

“Can't my debrief wait?”

“It wasn’t that.” Clint tilted his head. Did he know he’d picked up that gesture from her? “You kept babbling about Stalingrad.”

“Stalingrad?”

Oh.  _Stalingrad_ .

“I don’t plan on waking up again for the next four hours.” The drugs were making her slur her words already.

“Noted.”

As she drifted off, she thought she heard Clint say, “You scared me, too. Don’t do that—“ but she couldn’t be sure.

*

She woke up again.

“Thursday,” Clint said.

“You don't need to stay with me,” she muttered. It came out more like “Ydunneed staywme.”

Clint understood anyway. “You must be feeling better if you're pushing away all expressions of concern.”

She rolled her eyes. She did feel better. Better, not good. “You must have better things to do.”

“I'm here on training detail, but I wouldn't call that  _better_ .”

“Wouldn't want you to be bored.”

He took something small from one of his pockets, put it in his mouth, and started making a Godawful racket.

“What the hell is  _that_ ?”

He took it out of his mouth long enough to say, “Harmonica.”

“You take that with you everywhere?” she asked incredulously.

He stopped playing again. “You take lock picks everywhere you go.”

“Those are useful.”

“This is useful, too. It keeps me from being bored.”

“And drives me crazy.” She didn't need a longer sample of his playing to know it would be true.

“Like I said,” he said cheerfully. “Keeps me entertained.”

*

She fell asleep again before she saw Coulson.

“I'm supposed to tell you it's Thursday evening.” He was in Clint's chair.

She looked at him.

“And I don't have a harmonica.”

It took effort to smile, but she did it anyway.

He had a dark bruise that spiraled around his wrist. She stared at it for about thirty seconds before she remembered he was talking to her. They still had her on the good drugs.

“How do you feel?”

She looked at him. “Like I got shot three times. Barton said you wanted to talk to me?”

“You woke up at the extraction point,” Coulson said after a minute, “and you told me to stop touching you or you’d kill me slowly with a rusty fork.”

He didn’t look upset. But he had a look on his face that she didn’t know how to interpret. Like he’d bitten into an apple and discovered that it contained a cyanide pill that could only hurt someone else.

She didn’t remember that at all. But she wasn’t surprised. If she’d been thinking of Stalingrad— of  _Ivan_ — “That wasn’t hyperbole,” she muttered.

He looked at her.

This wasn’t fair, having this conversation when she was on strong drugs. “… wasn’t meant for you.”

“How’s your head?” he asked after a moment.

“ _Fine_ .” Weren’t they past this? How long were they going to be watching her for signs of craziness?

It bothered her, a little, that she didn’t remember any of it. But clearly she hadn’t been in her right mind, if she’d mistaken Coulson for Ivan. They were night and day. One was a power-tripping sadistic monster, and the other was a man who’d acted so decently to her when they’d first met that it had taken her a long time to be convinced it wasn’t a show, a manipulation. Coulson was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent through and through— but insofar as his job permitted him, he was also a good man. Clint had been right. She’d sort of simultaneously come to see that, and come to see that as evidence of his trustworthiness as a judge of character. It had gone something like this:  _Barton thinks Coulson is a good man. Barton is right. Barton thought I was worth taking a chance on. Barton treats me like a human being._

_… now what?_

‘Now what’ had started with running away and scaling a cliff in North Carolina, and she was still waiting to see where it went next.

“I wasn’t hallucinating or having flashbacks. Just… strong memories.”

Coulson watched her for a moment. “Are you all right?”

“You mean  _besides_ the bullet hole in my leg, the one in my ribs, and the one in my spleen?” She gave him a disbelieving look.

It didn't fool him. “Yes, I mean besides that.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “There are monsters in the closet, Coulson, and they’re always going to be there, but just because they rattle the doorknob doesn’t mean they’re coming out.”

He nodded. “Okay.” He looked her up and down. “Do you need anything that I can with good conscience provide to you while staying within my purview as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent?”

She smiled. He was finally learning. “No. But, Coulson—“

He raised his eyebrows.

“You were at the extraction point?”

“I happened to be in the area, yes.”

“Were you the first one there?”

“No. But the medic needed an extra pair of hands. One medic, three bullet holes.”

“Thanks for… keeping me from bleeding out.”

“Of course.”

“I didn’t… hurt you, did I?”

“No.”

She looked at his wrist. “Where'd that come from?”

He shrugged. “It's just a bruise.”

She looked up at him. “I'm sorry, Coulson.”

He looked at her with an expression that clearly said,  _Don't be ridiculous_ . “I would have. Stopped touching you. But you would have lost too much blood.”

He looked almost apologetic. It was her turn to wield the  _don't be ridiculous_ expression. Here was Coulson, standing at her bedside, stressing that the only reason he'd ignored her express wishes about her body-- never mind that she'd been raving-- was to save her life. She'd let slip enough that he thought that was necessary. Thought that was  _kind_ .

Coulson was ridiculous. But in a good way. She didn't even care that he knew... what he knew to say what he'd said. “The mission?”

“You had the papers on you when we found you. You also apparently set the top floor on fire before you made it to the elevator. We borrowed an ambulance and got you out. I got a look at the initial police report-- they found the other woman and the bullets, but they won't be able to match anything to you.”

“Good.”

“The medic and I broke a door getting in to you, but you'd already disabled security, so no one knows it was us.”

She nodded, and felt her eyelids droop.

She woke up. It had only been a second-- Coulson was still at the door. “Hey, Coulson.” Her words were slurring again. Had they dosed her again and she hadn't noticed?

He looked back at her.

“You're nothing like him.”

“Who?”

“The man I thought you were.”

She wasn't very lucid. But he must have understood. He looked at her for a minute. “Good,” he said softly.

She fell back asleep.

*

Convalescence didn’t get any less boring. The class Clint was leading kept him on base for a couple of weeks, so she saw more of him this time. She kept waiting for him to bring up Brno.

He didn't.

Even without that, his presence was a mixed blessing.  She had never before regretted having a private room, but if she’d had a roommate, he might have refrained from playing that damned harmonica. Apparently he'd sold his soul to the devil that was Medical by promising to keep her behaving well as long as he was there, so they wouldn't even kick him out. She'd known what they'd pulled after Dodoma would come back to bite her in the ass. Why hadn't it come back to bite  _him_ in the ass?

“Are you  _trying_ to annoy me into recovering faster so I can get out of here?” she finally demanded.

He looked at her. “What else would I be doing?”

Since the universe had declined to administer justice, it was up to her. She spent an entire morning pretending to be out cold-- he only played if she were awake or sleeping heavily, not if there was a chance he might wake her. Eventually a nurse bustled in to check on her, and Clint stop playing the harmonica. He wouldn't traumatize the  _nurses_ , but she was a different story, apparently. She watched through slitted eyes as Clint and the nurse talked. The harmonica was resting on the edge of the chair. Finally the nurse was at just the right spot--

It was tricky to remove the harmonica without Clint noticing, and slip it into the nurse's pocket without  _her_ noticing. But if she couldn't manage it, then her reputation was a lie. She pulled her fingers back just as smoothly to their previous spot. “Her vitals look good,” the nurse said. “She'll probably wake up soon.” Pause. “You're her partner?”

“Yeah.”

“It's good of you to keep her company.”

Pause. “Neither of us like hospitals very much.”

“You must have been together a long time?”

“A... couple of years, just.”

“Oh.” The nurse sounded surprised.

“They've been eventful years.” Clint sounded amused, and a bit wry.

“You must care about her very much, then.”

“Uh...?” Clint sounded baffled. “We're... we're partners.”

“Mmm.” The nurse made a non-committal noise.

She left. Natasha listened closely, and heard a soft noise of confusion. Cloth rustled like he was checking his pockets. The chair shifted and she heard the sound of rubber against tile-- looking under the bed. A silence.

“Nat...?”

She kept her face and body perfectly relaxed.

She felt his fingers moving along the edge of the sheets, through the folds of cloth. His hand moved towards her, and then he drew back, apparently unwilling to go any closer when she was unaware.

“Nat--” Still suspicious, but flummoxed. “Are you asleep?”

She probably would have woken at that. Not responding would invite either suspicion or concern. “Mmmmnnnn,” she said after a minute. “I  _was_ .” She opened her eyes. “What's wrong?”

He frowned. “Have you--”

She looked at him. “Clint. What's wrong?”

“Did you see what happened to my harmonica?”

She stared at him. “You woke me up to ask what happened to your harmonica.”

“Um.”

“I was  _asleep_ , Barton. Even I can't see through my eyelids.”

“Yeah-- sorry. Sorry.” He settled back in the chair, looking abashed. “Shouldn't've woken you. Sorry.”

“Maybe I bribed the nurse to take it,” she suggested after a minute, with a smirk.

“You wouldn't.”

She closed her eyes again. “In a heartbeat.”

*

The men’s locker room’s fascination with Natasha had waxed and waned, but never entirely disappeared. After she'd integrated into S.H.I.E.L.D. without the predicted betrayal, or meltdown, the other agents had moved on to other topics of conversation, unless it was a slow day and she’d beaten someone up particularly effectively in the gym that day. At least, Clint  _thought_ they’d moved on to other topics of conversation— considering he was often the one she was beating up, maybe they just saved the gossip for when he wasn’t around.

Apparently the trend was reversing today. “Did you hear about Romanoff and Danvers?” Wallace asked.

Was it a good thing it wasn't Macdonald? More of them wasn’t better.

“I didn’t know she batted for both teams. Can you  _imagine_ ? Oh my God. How much do you think I would have to pay them to let me watch?”

Clint dried himself imperfectly and stepped into his boxers, then tugged on his jeans with the usual ease of denim over damp skin. “I was sorry to hear about your injury, Wallace,” he said as he sauntered towards his locker. “Do they think it’s gonna be permanent?”

A pause. The rest of the room was quiet. “What injury?”

“Your brain injury. The one where you left it behind on your last mission.”

It took him a minute to get it. Then he sneered. “Sorry, Barton, I didn’t realize I was talking about your  _girlfriend_ . You must be pretty cut-up about her and Danvers, huh? Or they gonna let you join in?” He nudged the guy next to him, and they laughed.

Clint shrugged. “ _I_ got a policy about pissing off people who could kill me and make it look like an accident, but I’m sure you’ve already thought of that.”

Another pause. It was one of the green agents who piped up this time. “She could kill  _you_ and make it look like an accident?”

Clint was not unaware of his own reputation— deserved— as an extremely competent agent and assassin. He looked at the other man, unimpressed by his naivéte. “‘Course she could.”  _And the same for any of you._

Uneasy muttering as Clint grabbed his shirt: “I heard she cut off a guy’s balls with a butter knife once.” He couldn’t place the voice.

Wallace, trying to make a comeback— but too chicken to raise his voice much: “Does  _he_ have all his balls still?”

“He works with her, he has more balls than the rest of us put together,” one of his friends retorted.

That actually sounded very uncomfortable, but Clint didn’t point that out. His threshold for testosterone-fueled dick measuring had just been exceeded. He needed to go shoot things.

*

Even in the mess’s morning rush hour, it was easy to keep his small table to himself just by looking dour. The other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents didn’t need to know that his “I will kill you” and “I haven’t had enough coffee” faces were very similar.

He looked up quickly when someone pulled out the chair, prepared to glare harder, but it was just Coulson, carrying a tray light on actual food and heavy on coffee. “Morning.”

“Yep,” Clint agreed, and shoveled another bite into his mouth. He looked around until he saw a flash of red hair near the serving line. Coulson and Nat had been on a mission together— a milk run, really, Nat wasn’t completely cleared yet.

Someone else took the chair to Clint’s left. He glared at Wallace, but Wallace wasn’t even looking at him. Why would he sit  _there_ ? Apparently Coulson's presence was making Clint less intimidating. Could Clint knock that tray onto the floor and make Coulson believe it was an accident?

Coulson broke off a piece of pastry and dunked it in his coffee. “Has it been quiet here?”

Clint eyed Wallace, who noticed this time, and looked cowed into submission. “Wouldn’t know,” he said after a minute. “I was in Borneo, just got back yesterday.”

Coulson waved Natasha over. She put a coffee mug and a plate of eggs on the spot across from Clint. “The scones are good, with enough butter,” Coulson told her. She shrugged and went back. Wallace left, too— unfortunately not for good since his tray was still there. Clint was trying to figure out how to tip it in full view of Coulson, who knew exactly how clumsy Clint wasn’t.

Wallace came back with a cup of coffee while Clint was still thinking about it. Natasha also came back, holding a scone, a thing of butter, and a butter knife. Wallace looked at her, did a double take, jerked violently back, spilled hot coffee down his front, landed on the floor, and skittered out the door, tripping over his own feet.

Tasha raised an eyebrow, sat down, and speared her eggs with a fork. “What’s with him?”

Clint shrugged, kept his face blank, and hid his mouth behind his mug. Then he eyed Coulson, who was frowning thoughtfully.

“His last mission was a rough one,” Coulson said.

Clint righted the chair, and sipped his coffee. “You are an evil, evil man,” he said after a few minutes.

Nat looked confused. Coulson looked offended. “What are you talking about?”

Clint just smiled.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, a character is killed by having their head smashed in.


	11. Blood, Sweat, and Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: this chapter contains graphic violence; references to murder, child abuse, and attempted rape; references to reproductive coercion; attempted sexual assault; homophobic slurs.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta readers, C and N, not only for reading this chapter, sometimes repeatedly, but for listening to my grousing about how hard it was to get right.

His mission ended in the best way, with none of his people in Medical. With no wounded to check on, he was glad to skip straight to a shower and clean clothes. His long-dried uniform chafed in uncomfortable places, and he was painted with grime and dried blood.

On his way back from the showers, he nearly ran right into Coulson, who was walking fast while reading a tablet. Clint dodged, and then fell into step beside him. “New mission, sir?”

Coulson barely looked up. “I'm going to Hungary to organize a refugee camp.”

“Refugees?”

“Latveria.”

That explained why S.H.I.E.L.D. was involved.

“Supposedly, one of them is a powerful mutant child--” His phone rang. “Coulson.” Coulson's eyebrows went up as he listened. “Yes, sir.” Pause. “I'll take care of it, sir.” Coulson hung up. “Correction. I’m going to Hong Kong to negotiate an unofficial peace treaty.”

“What about the refugees?”

“Thank you for volunteering. You leave in twenty minutes.”

Clint grabbed another set of clothes and a spare quiver and ran for the plane. Onboard, he connected with Blake remotely.

“Barton,” Blake greeted him. He looked like he smelled something bad. Maybe he did; he was on the Helicarrier. “Doom opened his borders earlier today and started letting people out. We have intel that one of them is a strong telepath or telekinetic-- a little girl, we think. We don't think Doom knows about her, but we need to get her, and all the others, safe.”

“Why's Doom letting them go? Are we sure he didn't infect them with something first?”

“Budapest had the same concern, and was unwilling to receive them until S.H.I.E.L.D. promised to take care of it. Setting up the camp allows us to keep them in one place and monitor them for signs of illness.”

 _So you don’t know, and you’re sending us into a potential death trap._ But S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t just leave them there. Which Doom would have counted on.

“What else?”

Blake couldn't tell him much more. Clint studied the lists of people and supplies, and read a quick crash course in recent central European geopolitics. Then he brushed up on his Hungarian. If what he'd learned from the carnival's “fortune teller” came in handy, he'd be having a _bad_ day.

He watched from the cockpit as they descended through the rain. There was a big clump of people on both sides of the border fence. On one side, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were shepherding them through the checkpoint and Hungarian troops stood guard. On the other...

 _Aw, shit._ Even from a distance, Doombots were _damned_ creepy.

The Latverians who'd already crossed huddled together against the rain. They had to be miserable. Behind them were more Hungarian soldiers, with jeeps, tanks, and rocket launchers. Budapest wasn't taking any chances with Doom. Good.

The plane sunk into the mud on landing. The pilots would be lucky to take off again. This rain was gonna be a problem, especially on a plain between two hills. If they weren't washed away, they'd still have sodden people, collapsing tents, and overflowing latrines.

The mud tugged at his boots as he squelched over to the agents at the checkpoint. The Latverians watched him suspiciously. Not surprising; if he’d come out of Latveria, he’d be suspicious of everything that moved and most things that didn’t. Too bad Nat wasn’t here— paranoid escapees were right up her alley.

The agents by the fence looked miserable themselves, their suits plastered to their skin. Jesus, but the Doombots were even creepier up close. Were these the ones that actually thought they _were_ Doom? There were rumors around S.H.I.E.L.D. that Doom had a time machine and psychic abilities. No wonder everyone looked like someone’d pissed in their cornflakes.

But there were also rumors around S.H.I.E.L.D. that Fury had made his trench coat himself from the skin of his enemies, that he’d been born in 1925, and that no one had ever seen him sleep. The S.H.I.E.L.D. rumor mill was never an excuse to slack on your job. Clint’d seen the coat up close— had slept under it, in fact. If Fury really had made it himself, he was a damned good sewer.

He studied the Doombots. They were heavily armored... was that a gap right under the chin, though? Probably also protected against EMPs, but even Doom couldn’t do much about direct electric shocks, unless he was rewriting the laws of physics now. He... probably wasn't. After Budapest, R&D had given Clint a new arrowhead like Nat's Bites, but he only had the one.

He interrupted the agent that all the other agents were looking to for orders. “I’m Agent Barton. HQ sent me out in place of Agent Coulson. Bring me up to speed.”

The woman looked aggrieved, maybe because of the water draining down her braids right into her eyes. “Agent Kennedy, sir. We’re processing them through as fast as we can. We don’t have the manpower to do anything else.”

 _Right_. He looked around. “Who picked this site?”

“This is where Doom opened the border.”

 _Never do what Doom wants._ “It’s a terrible place for a refugee camp. We’re moving.”

“The Hungarian contingent won’t let us, sir. They’re very... jumpy.”

“Take me to their commander, then.”

She looked relieved as they broke away from the tangle of sodden suits and hunched, fearful refugees towards the tanks and jeeps.

“We know why Doom is letting them go?” he asked.

“They’re dissidents, apparently.”

“I didn’t think Latveria _had_ dissidents.”

“Apparently Doom gave them the choice of leaving, or execution. Most of them are terrified. They’ve never left the country before, they don’t know what the outside world is like, and they’ve heard awful stories about us.”

“We at least speak their language?”

“Some of them know a little Hungarian. We have three Hungarian translators from Linguistics-- and four more agents who speak it, and one translator who speaks Latverian. But he’s back with the troops. We think Doom still has a shoot-on-sight order for him.”

“A native?”

Kennedy nodded. “Doom was furious when he escaped and brought us the deactivated head of a Doombot. Did you know they can reassemble themselves from just the head?”

“… no.”

“Neither did we, until then.”

“Are you one of the Hungarian speakers?”

She shook her head.

“Send one of them up here. And then call HQ and tell them we need more people.”

“We’ve tried, sir. There’s something big happening in Hong Kong.”

“Call HQ and tell them Agent Barton says to send him more people, or he’s going to start press-ganging Hungarian soldiers into S.H.I.E.L.D., and then there’ll be paperwork.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Yes, sir.” She turned on her heel.

A short, pale, dark-haired man in a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, about Clint's age, jumped down from the last jeep in line. Clint went to meet him. The man held out his hand. “HQ sent you? I’m Peter Szabó.” His accent was very faint; he sounded almost like an American.

Clint shook it. “Clint Barton. I need to talk to the commander. Can you introduce me and translate?”

“Oh, he speaks English.” Szabó started forward, staying on the far side of the jeeps. Clint fell into step between him and the jeeps in case the Doombots tried for a shot through the gaps between the vehicles.

The commander was a tall, skinny man, not as pale as Szabó, with steel-grey hair, who sort of looked like an osprey. “I am Captain Lakatos. And you are?”

“Agent Clint Barton, S.H.I.E.L.D. We’re going to move the refugees.” It wasn’t the most diplomatic opening. Clint wasn’t a diplomatic person.

“No. That’s not acceptable. They are to stay here.”

“If it doesn’t stop raining there’s gonna be a mudslide sooner than later. And they’re not safe with Doom’s machines watching them. Those robots decide to open fire, Captain, your people won’t be able to save them.” If the soldiers were even there for that. “And our only Latverian translator can’t come anywhere near the refugees. That’s not gonna work. There's a plateau three miles in—“ His head snapped up. Movement, far up in the sky. “What's that?”

“One of Doom’s drones,” Szabó said.

Clint looked at Lakatos. “You allow the overfly?”

“We can’t stop it,” Lakatos snapped. “It’s shielded and has radar detection. We don’t know how he manages it on something that small. But we’ve never managed to shoot one down, we can barely even see it. Doom just laughs at our attempts. All we can do is have our diplomats complain.” He sneered at that idea. “Doom sent our last ambassador back in three boxes.”

“Huh.” No, they weren't going to do this on Doom's terms.

Clint unshouldered his bow and tapped for an explosive arrowhead. Lakatos was right, the thing was heavily armored, but even Doom couldn’t make a totally impregnable drone. He squinted, and the structure of the drone came into focus. Yes… _there_. He kept his bow down while he studied it, in case it had pattern recognition software. Then he grabbed the arrow, nocked it, swung the bow up towards the sky, and fired.

The drone took evasive action almost immediately. But the arrow still took it through a joint. He tapped the riser of his bow. The drone blew up.

The momentum carried the pieces safely out of range. Clint looked at the Doombots. They didn’t move.

Lakatos was watching him thoughtfully. “Three miles away, you say?”

When he'd gotten the captain's agreement, Clint sent Kennedy and three other agents ahead in one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s jeeps to start preparing the new site, and ordered the Hungarian translators to go through the crowd and find the people who would have the most trouble walking. He saw his pilot a few feet away. “Why are you still here?”

“We just got unstuck from the mud.” He sounded aggrieved.

“Great. Remember that plateau we overflew?”

“Yes…”

“I’m gonna give you some people to take out there. You can come back for the cargo. We need that moved too.”

The pilot looked dismayed, then resigned. “Yes, sir.”

It took longer than he wanted to get everyone moving. The Latverians didn’t put up much disagreement, but he was afraid it was because they were so disoriented and scared that they would go along with anything they were told. Or gestured, in this case. He sent Szabó to meet them up ahead and give them a better explanation— it wasn’t fair to treat them like livestock.

He looked towards the fence, where the agents were processing the last few refugees, and saw the Doombots staring at him. All of them. _Directly_ at him, following him when he moved.

_This day will get worse before it gets better._

They loaded the oldest and sickest refugees on the plane. Lakatos and his men watched all this with bemusement, possibly amusement too. A couple of their jeeps bounced into motion, keeping pace with the front line of moving refugees. More of them eased closer to the fence.

Finally, the border gate _clang_ ed shut. Some of the agents took up position on the Hungarian side. The Hungarian troops spread out to support them from behind... where they wouldn't be first in the line of fire if the Doombots opened up. Still, Clint would take what he could get. When everyone was in motion, Clint joined the rear of the exodus.

Then he looked back at the Doombots. Some were still watching him, but some were watching the troops. A few were staring in the direction Szabó had gone. The skin between Clint's shoulder blades crawled.

He studied the Latverians instead. Why had Doom let them go? Was he after Szabó? They had only Doom's word-- so, nothing-- that these people really were refugees. Any of them could have been an assassin. And S.H.I.E.L.D. had so few Latverian translators, it would've been easy to guess Szabó would be called in for this. Was he worth that much trouble?

Szabó himself joined Clint when they reached the shadow of the taller hill. Clint tilted his head towards the people. “Ask them why they left.”

It took Szabó a while to get them to reply in something besides monosyllables. Finally the older woman looked sideways at Clint and asked something. Whatever it was, it made Szabó choke back laughter. “She asked,” he explained, “if wherever we were going, we could give her children what made you grow up so strong.”

_A steady diet of killing, now part of this complete breakfast?_

The older man said something. Szabó replied. Their words got quick, and they talked over each other. “They’re dissidents,” Szabó reported after a while.

Clint eyed Szabó, not sure how to phrase this in a diplomatic way in case any of the refugees spoke more English than they were letting on. “I thought Doom didn’t usually treat his dissidents as benignly as letting them go.”

“No,” Szabó agreed. “He also tries really hard not to be predictable.”

“Do they know why he let them go rather than throwing them in prison?” Or killing them outright, or using them as lab animals.

Another few sentences in Latverian. “They’re not sure, but they think it was easier and cheaper to have Hungary deal with them.”

It probably was, but Doom didn't lack the money, or robot lackeys, to take care of his political prisoners for him. This family either didn't know or wasn't telling the real reason. “Are you from this area?”

Szabó shook his head. “I grew up in Doomstadt.”

“You, uh… got family there still?”

Another curt shake. “I would not have left if I did. Doom would have killed them.”

“I’m sorry.” The guy must've been young when he'd left, and Clint knew what it was like to be young and without family.

“Thank you.”

The rain was tapering off. Good; if he was soaked and cold, the refugees were worse. He and Szabó moved up to mingle with another group. Szabó started talking to them. They responded more freely, and after a few minutes, he translated for Clint. “Cristian— the husband— says his wife is too smart. Doom was afraid of what she might invent. He routinely imprisons those who are too smart. This time he let them leave.”

The shorter woman added something that sounded like a clarification or an argument. “Alexandra says that Doom was also afraid of her husband. He was afraid of what they might accomplish together.”

Szabó chatted with more people. Every story they got sounded about the same. Either the refugees were real, or Doom the megalomaniacal control freak genius had invented a different story for every family.

“So,” Szabó said after a while. Clint was watching the few young girls he saw for anything out of the ordinary. “You're kind of famous in S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Barton.”

“Only on a slow day.”

“Did you really take down a hundred H.Y.D.R.A. soldiers while naked?”

 _I had my boss’s shirt tied around my waist_ wasn’t much of a qualifier. “It wasn’t just me.”

Another quick sidelong look: “You’re partnered with the Black Widow.”

Clint nodded once.

“It must be incredible to work with her,” he ventured after a little while.

“Mm.”

“I’ve, uh… wanted to meet her.”

Clint eyed him. Young male agents— hell, older ones too— sighing wistfully as they admitted they’d always wanted to meet Natasha pretty much only ever went meant one thing.

“They say that she-- it took her twelve years of fighting brainwashing to get away from her captors, but she still did it.”

 _Oh_ . “Agent Romanoff's a pretty private person,” he said after a minute. Let Szabó think that meant _I don't know_ instead of _I'm not saying_.

“Sometimes I...” Szabó hesitated, looking very young. “Wonder what it was like for others to leave everything behind.”

Yeah, but Nat like strangers probing into her past about as well as Clint liked... sliding down a roof on his bare ass. Clint made a non-committal noise, and looked around, still watching out for the little girl.

There just weren't that many kids around at all. Were the people with kids less likely to make trouble? He had a horrible vision of the refugees being force-marched to the border, and those with young kids not making it.

A little girl up ahead scowled and screwed up her face like she was about to scream. The man with her picked her up and held her close, _shush_ ing her and soothing her, while looking around surreptitiously. Interesting.But someone out of Latveria was probably used to looking over his shoulder all the time.

The rain had stopped. The plateau was just up ahead. The ground here was firmer, and he could see a pre-fab building already going up. Good. They'd get the youngest, oldest and sickest under there, use it as a med station too, and start getting people fed and watered, which would occupy them for--

The little girl _screamed_. The sound went through him to his bones. People covered their ears. It felt like—

Not felt like. The ground _was_ shaking.

He ran forward as the little girl’s father clutched her, looking frantic. The screaming tapered off— but the shaking continued—

He was half-deafened by the scream. It took him too long to identify the new sound: helicopters, coming in fast. Had Doom figured out he'd lost the mutant girl? Wonder later. People around him dove for cover-- not that it would do much good--

He had to assume the Hungarians wouldn't or couldn't help. The plane had weapons if it could take off, but even a quinjet would do badly in a close-range dogfight with a bunch of souped-up choppers. Maybe if he-- no, he'd never get up there in time.

He tapped for an explosive arrowhead, set it to detonate on impact, nocked the arrow, and took a wide stance. He aimed at the sky and waited.

The first helicopter appeared over the rise. It was black, no country markings on it, and coming in low. Damn it, the debris could easily hit people-- but they didn't have any choice. He fired. The explosion pushed against his eardrums-- what if--

A missile streaked past and took out a second helicopter. He risked a glance back. _Where did she get a rocket launcher?_ She and the agent frantically trying to secure it to the ground got points for resourcefulness.

A wave of drones came over the ridge, not separating at all. He was pretty sure they were going for the kid, but they could have been going for him. He didn’t have enough explosive arrowheads for them all. But they were so close together… he nocked a regular arrow and fired.

It knocked the drone it hit into a second drone. The arrow slid through both and brought them down. Another rocket took out the next closest drone. In his peripheral vision, he saw Szabó sprint out of cover, to the little girl and her dad. The man was sheltering his daughter bodily; Szabó knelt over them both, gun drawn.

He needed to save his special arrowheads as long as he could take out the drones without them. Rifles opened up behind him. He hoped like hell someone had called for backup. _You idiot, where's your_ earpiece?

People were screaming in fear, pain, or both. He ducked as something-- too big for a bullet-- zoomed out of a drone and through where his head had been. He saw clear sky-- was this the last of them?

Aim. Fire. Kennedy took out one last helicopter that popped up-- he knew Doom was getting hits in, because he smelled blood-- two--

Something hard struck him in his right shoulder blade, knocking him to the ground. _Get up_ \-- he struggled to get his breath back--

The second blow was to his head. He stopped struggling.

He never quite passed out. But when the screams and the smell of smoke penetrated again, he wasn't sure how long it'd been. His cheek was squished into the mud, and his shoulder ached furiously. Worry later, assess threats now.

 _Thwack!_ He looked up as Kennedy bludgeoned a grapefruit-sized machine with the butt of a rifle. It looked familiar. Another blow, and it fell apart with a hideous electronic squeal. But the sky was clear.

He sat up. Moving his right arm hurt like hell, but his left arm was fine. He collapsed his bow with his left hand, strapped it to his leg, and drew his gun as he got slowly to his feet. Still nothing threatening them from the sky, and the ground was wet enough that the wreckage wouldn't set anything on fire. Time to regroup. Which was on him.

The pain distracted him as he scanned the area. The refugees looked more scattered and scared than hurt, another indication that the attack had been for him, or the girl.

Kennedy saw him. “You all right, sir?”

He nodded.

She poked the metal remains with her foot. “Damned bludger tried to take you out. Got you from behind, got you in the head, and still went back for more.”

“What's a— never mind. What damage did we take?“

“Martins reported in as soon as the attack began. Riley is down, she should live.”

“Get everyone who passed medic quals to go through the refugees and patch up whoever's hurt. Have the able-bodied ones who are fine working on more shelter. I want the rest of ours securing our perimeter, guards watching the sky in all directions. Where’d the rocket launcher come from?”

“It was on the plane.”

“Why?”

“Fury’s new trainee, I think.”

 _Fury’s new trainee?_ Later. Damn it, _earpiece_. “I need HQ, and I need Lakatos. Or Budapest on the line. We need some Goddamned air support.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And stop calling me sir. Barton’s fine.”

Where was the girl? Had she sensed the attack? There, with her dad and Szabó. Good: Szabó seemed sensible. Hopefully he could handle whatever else came at them until Clint could get them better protection.

Or talk to them, and find out if _they_ were the ones who needed protection, from her.

“Agent Barton— you’re hurt.”

“It’ll be fine.”

Kennedy looked at him doubtfully, but went off to relay his orders. Blood was running down her cheek from a large cut at the start of one of her cornrows. Pot, kettle.

“Agent Barton!” Martins held out a phone. It was Lakatos: Doom's bots had rushed the fence concurrently with the air attack. This was still too close to the border. Anywhere they could get on foot would be too close. They needed reinforcements, and they needed transport.

But they wouldn't get any of it immediately. Better to stay and let the refugees rest-- they surely needed it-- or push on through the night? Doom wasn't subtle. As soon as he knew his attack had failed, he'd probably send another one. He probably knew already.

Unless…

He waved over Szabó, the man, and the girl. They cautiously picked their way across the rubble, the man watching the girl with mixed affection and fear. “Doom’s after her,” Clint told Szabó quietly. “If we send her away, he might leave the others alone, and we can get her somewhere safe. Don’t frighten them—“ He looked around at the rubble. “... more. But tell him we want to move 'em.”

Szabó translated. The man looked resigned, but nodded. “He says he’ll go as long as his daughter stays with him, and no one takes her off for testing. That’s what Doom did to kids like her.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. resettled a bunch of kids like her a couple years ago. Far as I know, they’re all fine. We can find a place for ‘em.” The culture shock would be acute, but Latveria had so little contact with the outside world, resettling anywhere would be a shock.

While he argued with HQ about the use of a safe house in Budapest, he found the quinjet pilot and had him start the pre-flight. Sending the girl and her dad away in the quinjet would leave them without any air support or fast escape, but Clint was willing to gamble that Doom wouldn't waste resources on them if they no longer had what he was looking for.

Unless he wiped them out from spite.

But one quinjet wouldn't be able to fight off an attack that big, or save more than a handful. They could at least save the girl and her dad. They'd be alone and scared in Budapest until S.H.I.E.L.D. sent another Latverian speaker, but they'd be alive.

Szabó got the girl and her father onboard. “Once you’re up, transmit in the clear back to us your expected time to Miskolc,” Clint told the pilot.

The pilot frowned. “You want us to transmit our destination in the clear?”

“No. I want you to send the transmission and then take them to Budapest.” Eavesdroppers deserved whatever they heard, after all.

He watched the plane up and out of sight, wincing as his shoulder throbbed. Most of the refugees were upright and mobile, either putting up tents or clearing debris. Good. R&D would be thrilled to get their hands on so much of Doom's work.

They'd turned half of the prefab building into a med bay. He checked with the doctor in charge, and sent him a couple of the best-trained medics to help. He stopped one of them on their way, borrowed her kit, and took a couple of painkillers. Maybe that would take the edge off.

He checked the supplies. A rocket launcher had definitely not been on the list he'd seen. Everything that should have been there was there, but there was also some light weaponry. Not the kind of thing most people would send to a refugee camp, but the perfect thing to send to a S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost three miles from the Latverian border. Whoever'd added it, he needed to thank them.

The agents were setting up tables on the other side of the prefab building, and they didn't need Szabó to tell the hungry refugees there was food. A line was already forming. He stopped the first agent he saw-- Yeung. “Send some food to the med bay.”

“Enough for the patients and staff, yes sir.”

He was starving, but he could wait, just like the others. He retreated to high ground to watch the camp. He waved to the guard posted above him, then sat down with his knees drawn up to his chest, huddled against the cold. He kept hoping the painkillers would kick in. He was afraid they already _had_.

“Agent Barton?” It was the guard about thirty feet above his head. “Is that you?”

He raised a hand.

“Uh— they say you have really great eyesight, sir. Would you come look at this?”

He heard the suppressed alarm in her voice, and scrambled up the hill as fast as he could.

She pointed. “There. See that cluster of lights?”

It looked like stars… almost. “Yeah.”

“I’m not sure what it is.”

He stared, trying to identify the pattern. “What caught your attention about it?” She probably couldn't pick up how the lights were vibrating slightly, in a way no stars would, or that there was a silhouette behind it, black on black.

“I’m from this area, sir. I know the constellations. That’s not one of them.”

He was still staring at the unfamiliar object when it flared with light in a way that was _really_ familiar.

He tackled the guard and launched them both down the slope. “GET DOWN, GET DOWN, GET DOWN, GET—“

Someone below heard him and started repeating it—

“—DOWN—“

They hit the ground. The flare of pain in his shoulder made him want to throw up. He felt the impact, braced himself for the explosion—

It didn’t come.

He looked up. Down below, Kennedy was shouting, and agents were rushing into a defensive line-- Szabó stood at her shoulder with an RPG launcher and a look of grim determination-- but behind him-- that loud, grinding metal sound couldn't be good--

He rolled off the guard and onto his back. Something huge and boxy was silhouetted on top of the ridge, and it was _growing_ , unfolding and straightening up into what looked a lot like a battle robot. Probably once it got itself together, its armor would stop whatever they could throw at it. The quinjet could’ve taken it— Doom really was watching them closely—

But it hadn’t gotten itself together yet.

He unfolded his bow. He had to put it down to tap out the pattern and then grab the arrow. When he moved his right arm to pick it up again, the pain shot into his stomach and chest. He swallowed a growl. Bring the bow up. The movement ground fire into his shoulder joint. _Ignore it_. There were a thousand lives down there.

Nock the arrow on the string. Pull. The pain made his breath shaky. _Focus. Sight._ He aimed for the still-exposed back of the neck— in another minute the head would snap up, covering that thin spot with a thick plate—

His arrow got there first. He slammed his hand down on the riser and closed his eyes, diving for cover. The movement jarred his arm again-- _aaaaah_ \--

The brightness of the explosion through his eyelids told him that the whole robot had gone up, not just the arrowhead. The heat rushing over him a second later said the same thing. Debris peppered them— but only light debris—

He opened his eyes again. A huge piece of the robot had landed upslope, stopping smaller pieces and probably saving his and the guard's lives. Noise down in the camp below—

Oh, that was cheering. Ragged cheering.

Wasn’t that thoughtful of them. He rolled over and retched. Not one of his best moments.

“Sir!” The guard crouched by his head, hands hovering over him, clearly not sure what to do for someone who was conscious and breathing with no apparent reason to be vomiting.

“‘m fine.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand. “Fine.”

“Uh.”

He staggered to his feet and turned to watch the robot. “Get a team up here—“ The order was unnecessary; agents were already swarming up the hillside, some carrying ropes— _oh, shit_.

Doom’s robot. Doom, who made things that could reassemble themselves. “Get some of these pieces out of here, we don’t want it putting itself back together when we’re not looking! Walk it out if you have to. Don't take it all in the same direction--” What had they done the last time they’d dealt with something like this? _It says something about my job that there’s actual precedent for this_.

There'd been something at Missouri soon after he'd brought Natasha in. Liquid nitrogen-- that's what they'd used. “Get me HQ. And an earpiece.”

The agent who brought him the earpiece tried to put it into his right hand. He bit back a hiss, turned, and grabbed it with his left. Intense pain was radiating from his right shoulder, down his arm, and across his chest. It took effort to ignore it well enough to function. Anything strong enough to cut through it would be strong enough to impair his mind.

When he reached someone at HQ with the authority to give him what he needed, it was Blake. “Barton, why do you need _liquid nitrogen_ at a refugee camp?” He wasn’t Coulson; he couldn’t make that sound intimidating, just plain annoyed.

“Doom sent a flying battle robot at us. I blew it up, but he still has an airship up there. We could get attacked again at any time, and we know these things can put themselves back together. I have people scattering the pieces, but I want to keep it immobile as a better safeguard.”

“An airship? You mean an air _plane_?”

“It’s hovering. It’s too big for a quinjet. With all due respect, whether it’s an airplane or a Goddamned zeppelin is irrelevant right now.”

Blake went off the line. One moment became four. Clint watched the pieces of the robot. The remaining ones were immobile… for now. They’d taken the head away— good. The remaining arm had a cannon integrated into it. R&D would have a field day with that, assuming it didn’t come alive and kill them all first.

“It’s going to take at least ten hours to get that set-up to you,” Blake reported finally, still sounding irritated, like this were all Clint’s fault.

“We need it sooner. We also need better air support-- at least a squad of helicopters.”

“Barton, this was supposed to be a _refugee camp_. You weren’t supposed to need an entire division of support.”

“Whoever decided that nothing could possibly go wrong _three miles from the Latverian border_ needs to get their head out of their ass far enough to see daylight,” Clint snapped. “If you thought this was a routine job, Coulson wouldn’t have drawn it.”

“Agent Coulson would have done a much better job at keeping the situation from escalating than you.”

“If you think that even Agent Coulson could take out one of Doctor Doom’s hell-machines in the dark with one shot, then you are welcome to send him for the next attempt.” He was being flagrantly insubordinate, which Blake never took well, but he didn’t give a damn. His shoulder _ached_.

Coulson might have found some other way of stopping the thing— but if it hadn’t been Clint here, the refugee camp would probably be charnel by now. They’d never have gotten the rocket launcher in position before the robot assembled itself.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Blake said finally. The line went dead.

 _So much for that_. He had to assume they wouldn’t be getting any help from that quarter, at least until he could reach someone with less of a stick up their ass than Blake. He turned to look at the patch of lights that had fired off the robot. It was gone. He scanned the sky carefully, but didn’t see anything. He needed to find that guard and get her to double-check if any of the constellations were wrong. Where had it gone? Back to Latveria? Why? Doom had to know this attempt hadn’t succeeded, either.

They were sitting ducks out here, they needed to move. But marching exhausted, frightened civilians in the dark into unexplored territory was asking for trouble. They needed alternate transport. They needed--

“Did HQ say when the supplies were coming in?” It was Kennedy.

He shook his head. “We gotta assume it’s not any time soon.”

She frowned at his arm. “Want me to get a medic up here?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Bullshit. Are you going to the med building, then?”

“Maybe later. It’s not that bad.”

She looked completely unconvinced, in a way that reminded him strongly of Natasha.

He blustered on. “Was anyone hurt below?”

“We still have agents doing the sweep. It’s hard with only one Latverian speaker.”

She left and came back. He was still in the same spot, watching the sky for the next thing. “I got Captain Lakatos on the line,” she reported. “He refused all my requests. He said that they were there to secure the border, not ferry refugees around.”

“If they’d ferry the refugees around like we asked, they’d have an easier time securing the border.” But even the Hungarians couldn't move a thousand people quickly, unless they brought in more trucks. Unless they really did want to march off into the night, taking hours to cover distances Doom’s weapons could cover in seconds, they were stuck there. Barely any defenses or weapons— Blake hadn’t even offered to scan the area for Doom’s aerial platform, damn it— Clint wasn’t sure he could even nock another arrow.

“Oh— One of the old refugees thought he knew what Doom was up to. The medics said he spoke a little English, but he was feverish and kind of out of it, so they didn’t want to ask him any more until you got there.”

Clint frowned. “They thought he was credible?”

“He was asking questions about the equipment, and sounded kind of knowledgeable, like he might have been one of Doom’s technicians once.”

A trap? But it wasn’t news that Doom might have ex-employees among the refugees, especially if he’d been kicking out smart people who disagreed with him. Hell, for all they knew, every single refugee was groomed by Doom to spy on the outside world for him. Let S.H.I.E.L.D. sort that out later. “Where is he?”

“Med bay. I’ll take you there.”

They threaded their way through the rows of tents. Most of the people had picked themselves up again after the impact and explosion, but no one would be sleeping soon.

He followed her through the building to a room at the back. The medics had the old guy in containment?

“Here he is,” Kennedy announced. He stepped into the room and saw no old guy, just a doctor. Kennedy deftly side-stepped him and backed out the door. He couldn’t get through before she closed it without doing something really undignified and painful, but he still had time to bite out “ _Damn_ you,” before the jaws of the trap closed completely. Jesus, he was stupid for falling for that.

The medic-- Parker-- was unimpressed by his anger. “Please have a seat, Agent Barton. Can you take off your shirt?”

“I can't lift my right arm.”

“Then we'll cut it off--”

“Just gimme a minute,” he growled. He unzipped his mud-heavy sweatshirt, tugged it off his left shoulder, and carefully pulled it out from under his right arm. Next his vest. It was stiffer than the sweatshirt, so he had to raise his arm about an inch to get it to slide off. He was sweating when he was done. The room wasn't warm.

Parker produced a switchblade with impressive speed and started forward. Clint eyed the blade and backed up against the wall. “Uh, no.” He waved Parker back and drew his own knife. It was pretty unlikely that a S.H.I.E.L.D. doc would be trying to kill him, and even unlikelier that Kennedy would have been in on the plot. But still. He didn’t like letting strangers near him with knives. Too easy to slip it into his ribs between seams.

_So what does that say about the time you gave Natasha a straight razor and easy access to your carotid?_

He cut the shirt off himself. His hands were sweaty enough that the blade slipped and nick his side. Parker looked sardonic, but kept his mouth shut. Clint tugged the rest of his shirt out from under his right arm. Even that small motion jarred his shoulder. He wiped his knife on his ruined shirt, then wadded it up and held it against the gash.

Parker began to probe Clint’s shoulder with gloved hands. “Tell me if this hurts.”

Even the light touch of his fingertips hurt, but Clint kept his mouth shut. He had to be imagining that. He couldn't possibly have fucked his shoulder up that badly, could he? He watched Parker's face for any clue, but his face was professionally blank.

He concentrated on his breathing to keep the pain down. It didn't help much, but it fought back the embarrassing panic he was starting to feel.

_What’ll S.H.I.E.L.D. do with me if I can’t shoot any more?_

Could he swallow his pride and deal with the drudgery and embarrassment of being desk-bound if it meant he still got to eat? No more missions, no more flying, no more adrenaline rushes… no more Coulson in his ear. No more Natasha at his back.

It felt like the bottom fell out of his stomach. He swallowed hard and kept breathing evenly. _Don’t get your panties in a wad, Barton, you’ve faced worse before._

Yeah, he had. But losing Phil and Natasha— he didn't think they'd easily stay in touch if he had to leave S.H.I.E.L.D.— would be about like waking up to realize Barney had betrayed and abandoned him, minus only the weight of an innocent's life.

Had he really killed that old man? Natasha didn’t think so. He might-- did-- think her definition of “justifiable homicide” left something to be desired, but she wouldn’t lie to him about something like that just to make him _feel_ better.

… would she?

Whether or not he’d killed him— Clint could’ve saved his life, and hadn’t. In the end, he was just as dead.

“What's going on?” he prompted after a long few minutes.

“I don't know yet. Don't move.”

“Did I fuck up my shoulder?”

“Yes. You fucked up your shoulder.”

He took a breath. “… how bad?”

“I don’t _know_ . As soon as I know something, I will take off all my clothes and shout _Eureka_. I will not leave you in suspense any longer than I have to.”

That was another thing. Not only were other agents getting sneaky, they were learning about sarcasm.

Finally Parker stepped back. “You should get examined at HQ as soon as you can. I can’t tell you anything more than that without equipment.”

“But you think it’s bad,” Clint prompted.

Parker looked at him. “I just told you, _I can’t tell you anything more than that without equipment_.” That he was loading a syringe of with something that appeared to be painkillers was the only reason Clint didn’t get more indignant about having that repeated, slowly, like he were a small child. Or deaf.

“Do you think I could’ve hurt it permanently?” he persisted.

“Anything is possible. This’ll take the edge off the pain. Hold still.”

Whatever it was worked wonderfully fast. Within thirty seconds, he felt the pain diminishing. “God,” he breathed in relief.

“That’s to tide you over until you can get to a better facility. Don’t use your right arm.”

“But I—“

“I am fully capable of drugging you into unconsciousness and tying your wrist to your torso.”

It was eerily like Parker was being possessed by Phil. Maybe he was, there wasn’t a lot Clint would put past Coulson. Or maybe Parker was really an LMD, patterned after Coulson’s personality. “Can I go?”

“You’ll probably want to put your clothes on first.”

He tugged his sweatshirt back on, and then his tac vest, moving as little as possible. The little he did have to move was much less painful. For that alone, it had been worth the time. He should probably find Kennedy and thank her.

The rehydrated chicken smell from the other side of the building actually was appealing-- definitely time to eat. Between eating and drinking, and the painkillers, he started to feel almost human again.

Kennedy found him there. “Good news: our reinforcements are inbound and should be here by dawn.”

“Fantastic.” He made a mental note to be a little less irritated with Blake the next time he saw him.

“Most of the refugees have settled down to sleep. We’re out of tents, but we prioritized the young and the old, and they were all able to cram in together pretty well.”

“Why can't they use this building?”

She hesitated. “Most of the ones who are not in tents are keeping watch.”

“Ah.”

“May I suggest you also sleep?”

He gave her a look. “Or what, you’ll trick me into consulting a mattress on security issues?”

She looked unrepentant. “I don’t think we have any mattresses.”

With his eyesight, he had the best chance of detecting another incoming incursion. And if it were another Doombot, maybe the best change of stopping it. Even if it meant permanently losing the ability to shoot. “Consider it suggested.”

“They’re even bringing the liquid nitrogen.”

“Can we get any before then? What about the universities in Budapest? The military must have some.”

“Not at this hour, unless someone wants to go to Budapest and stage a raid.”

“What’s our backup plan if the robot pieces come alive?”

“Scream, probably.”

“That’s not a great plan, Agent Kennedy. Think of a better one. Fast.”

“Yes, sir.”

He made a quiet circuit of the camp. The guards saw him coming and challenged him; the one who didn’t, he embarrassed with a few short words. Most of the refugees were quiet in the tents, and the ones who weren’t were sitting very, very still, in front of the tents, or at strategic places throughout the camp. They didn’t see him circling, but he had to expend some effort to make it so. Who were they keeping watch against? Did they know themselves? Doom? Each other? S.H.I.E.L.D.? All of the above?

He took a leak-- at least the latrines weren't overflowing-- and then climbed to a spot where he could watch the dismembered robot. The throbbing in his shoulder slowly grew as he cooled off and the painkillers wore off. He studied the robot parts by the light of the moom. How did they go together? What would be the most vulnerable part if it tried to reassemble? _How_ would it try to reassemble? The most obvious shot would be to take out whatever passed for a nerve center, but if it started to reassemble without its head… did it have some sort of secondary brain somewhere? Or little control centers everywhere in the body?

He was exhausted. It would be so easy to fall asleep. He settled for a sort of open-eyed, meditative trance where he stayed alert but didn't have to think. A kid woke up and started to cry, the kind of sobbing that usually meant terror. Quiet grumbling drifted up from the camp, but someone quieted it down before long.

Something shifted. He and the guards all grabbed for their guns. They relaxed when they realized it was only a heavy piece of metal sinking deeper into the mud. He didn’t. If he were going to design a robot that could reassemble itself while under armed guard, he’d make it start off with something innocuous, too.

More crying kids. The guards changed shifts. The eastern sky started to lighten.

At last, he heard the hum of inbound aircraft. He picked them out when they were barely visible in the northwest, and made sure they _were_ S.H.I.E.L.D. planes. Then he climbed down to meet them on the flat space north of the camp.

Szabó recruited some of the refugees for unloading duty before Clint could do it. Clint gave him a grateful nod; that would free up some of their people for more logistically challenging things, like setting up the liquid nitrogen rig. He stayed out of the way and watched to make sure the right things were going to the right places. An agent he didn’t recognize came down the ramp and over to him. “Agent Barton,” she greeted him, looking put off when he shook her extended hand with his left one. “Agent Mamani. I’m supposed to tell you that the asset and her father reached Budapest safely, where they were joined by one of our translators.”

“Great.” Why was S.H.I.E.L.D. referring to a six-year-old as an _asset?_ He'd promised her dad that S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't experiment on her--

“Can we do the briefing now?”

“What briefing?”

“Um... what I need to know to run the camp.”

“Uh, what?”

She frowned. “You don’t know? Then who ordered the medevac?”

“The _what_?”

She eyed him like he were an idiot. “You are Agent Clint Barton? Codename Hawkeye?”

 _Who else would have a quiver on their back?_ “Yeah, that’s me.”

“We have orders to get you out of here.”

 _The hell you do!_ He held out his left hand for the tablet she’d been fidgeting with since landing. When she gave it to him, he had to hold it awkwardly and scroll with the same hand.

“The head doctor said you’d injured your shoulder and needed to be transported to a medical facility as soon as possible.” She looked at him doubtfully. “But I thought the evac order came from you. You didn’t know?”

“He lied,” Clint muttered, still scrolling. Here it was: return orders with his name on it. “I’m upright, ambulatory, and not bleeding, do I look like I need a medevac?” There was something written at the bottom of the orders, in the “notes” field: _Barton, I know you’ll see this, because you’re an obstinate and suspicious asshole. The soldiers are authorized to use force to bring you back. Don’t make them do it. You’re too much of an asset to S.H.I.E.L.D. to risk over your own petty power play_.It was signed by Blake.

 _Too much of an_ asset _to S.H.I.E.L.D._ He was starting to be real suspicious of that word.

“Agent Blake added,” Mamani began.

Clint raised an eyebrow.

“Something to the effect of you’d pissed Doom off so badly, it was safer for the refugees to get you out of there.”

He turned and eyed the soldiers who were still on the plane. He could take them. But then what? Short of stealing the plane and committing mutiny, all that would happen would be a very embarrassing and public, and probably painful, takedown.

Instead of an embarrassing and public replacement. _Thanks, Blake, A+ leadership skills there._

“I got all the time in the world, apparently. D’you wanna start with the giant robot, or the homicidal megalomaniac who sent it?”

He watched the offloading supplies while he gave Agent Mamani the rundown. She kept an eye on _him_ , like she knew how unhappy he was over that evac order. He wasn’t making any attempt to hide it. But it wasn’t her fault. “We’ve been liaising with Captain Lakatos on the Hungarian army side,” he said. “Haven’t seen ‘im since last night, I think he’s still at the border. Agent Kennedy can put you in touch. You bring any snipers?”

She looked taken aback. “No. Should we have?”

He just shook his head. “It's not safe here. You need to get them further in the country. Out of rocket range, ideally.”

He could _see_ her want to ask how she was supposed to move all these people tens of miles without any transport to speak of. Then she nodded crisply. “We’ll get it done.”

He found Agent Kennedy and introduced her and Agent Mamani. He made sure all the supplies were off-loaded and stayed long enough to make sure the liquid nitrogen was working. The techs had been hovering over the debris since the plane landed, and they'd picked what looked like the most critical piece for the quinjet to take away on its first trip.

Waiting for the hunk of metal to be loaded, he saw Szabó coming with a couple of medics who were carrying an old woman between them. A very pregnant young woman was leaning heavily on a third medic. She spoke quickly to Szabó, looking scared; he replied in a reassuring tone.

Szabó looked surprised to see Clint clearly about to board. “What happened to you?”

“Authority figure on a power trip. Who're they?”

“Mrs. Gabor— Anya— is near the end of a high-risk pregnancy. If she goes into labor here, there could be complications. They’re sending her out, but she’s very worried. She’s never been outside Latveria before and Doom told them that her people were not treated well in the outside world.”

“Her people?”

“She’s part Roma. Many Latverians are.”

“Oh.”

“Latveria’s actually one of the safest parts of Europe for them. Relatively safe. As safe as…”

“As any place ruled by Doctor Doom can be?”

“Exactly.”

One of the medics stayed on the plane with the two patients. Clint sketched a wave to Szabó and followed them up, hitting the ramp button when he was inside. He poked his head into the cockpit. “What’s our destination?”

“Paris. Should be just under two hours.”

Fatigue hit him like a sack of sand. He curled up in a corner away from the women and closed his eyes. Probably neither of them wanted to kill him, and if they did, he could wake up in time…

*

He woke up and thought Nat was having a nightmare.

The cold metal against his back reminded him where he was. He sat bolt upright. The young woman, Anya, was on her back--

 _Oh_. Yeah, he’d probably be screaming too.

“Where are we?” he called into the cockpit. “Can we land?”

“Half an hour out, and no!” The pilot sounded aggrieved.

“There’s _no_ airstrip closer we can put down at?”

“That’s right!”

He didn’t waste time asking why. Whatever had happened that they couldn't put down wouldn't be helped by a backseat pilot.

The medic knelt on one side of Anya, the old woman on the other. “Can I help?” he called to the medic. From the noise she was making, she sounded pretty close, but what did he know about it? Had he really slept through some of this?

“Have you ever delivered a baby?”

“Have _you_?” The kid looked pretty new, and obstetrics wasn’t high on the list of S.H.I.E.L.D. rotations. That would be creepy.

“You can’t even move your right arm,” the medic snapped, which probably meant _no_.

He tried to assess the situation, then averted his gaze. Anya's dress was hiked up around her waist, the blanket under her soaked, and she probably wouldn’t even notice but it would still be rude to stare. Besides, unless he was going to shine a flashlight up her nether regions and figure out where the baby was, or... something— _not reporting for that duty, thank you very much, ever_ — his eyes wouldn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.

“What do you need if she has the baby right now?”

“I, uh…”

He’d seen two deliveries, once in the circus and once on his third mission with S.H.I.E.L.D. Mostly he remembered blood and screaming. “They pretty much come out on their own, don’t they?” Not always in a good way— and this was a high risk pregnancy— but it wasn’t like they could get her to wait until they landed. “What the hell do you need, agent?”

“I don’t speak her language,” the kid snapped again. “I can’t even ask her if it’s okay for me to touch her.”

“She’s Latverian, kid, not stupid, she’ll get the idea even if she doesn’t speak English. You ever played charades?”

The medic looked at him with disbelief.

“I speak little English.” The old woman’s voice was heavily accented.

How many of the other Latverians did? Had they hidden that fact in order to pick up more information than S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to let slip? “Tell her what’s going on.”

The old woman raised an eyebrow. “She _knows_.”

“I mean—“

The medic cut in. “Ask if I can help her.”

The old woman translated. The pitch of Anya’s moans changed a little, and she nodded.

Clint popped open the plane's med kit. Not much of use here. Hopefully the medic's own bag was better equipped. They needed hot water, didn’t they? He tossed over the bottle of rubbing alcohol instead.

“Ask her how long her contractions are,” the medic said. “And how far apart.”

The old woman frowned.

Clint turned his back on their elaborate gesturing. The quinjet had a rudimentary latrine and a sink that was little more than a tap, but the water would be clean if the tank’d been full when leaving Paris. He found the compartment with emergency food and started methodically opening packages of shelf-stable field rations to get at the heaters.

“What are you doing?” the medic demanded.

“We need hot water, don’t we?”

“We’re twenty-five minutes out from Paris. This usually takes hours. She’ll be in a hospital by the time we need to cut the cord. I can’t wait for you to boil water a mug-full at a time.” She pulled on gloves and rubbed her forearms vigorously with the alcohol. “Just— sit down and let me take care of this.”

The old woman gestured at Anya’s belly. “For a while.”

It took the medic a minute to catch on. “She was _already in labor_? And they didn’t--”

The old woman nodded.

The medic muttered something obscene-sounding. “Tell her I’m going to check on the baby.” She waited for the old woman to translate and for Anya’s nod, then knelt and slid her hands… Clint looked away. Then he looked back at the medic’s pained noise.

“It's not breech, but she’s about to have it. Is this her first?”

A pause. “No. Third—“ More from Anya. “The others were like this. Fast.”

“ _Things that would have been helpful to know_ ,” the kid muttered with venom.

“She wants to walk.”

“She’s about to give birth!”

“ _Wants to walk_.” Even as the old woman said it, Anya was struggling to get to her feet. The medic tried to help her, but slipped on the fluid on the deck. Clint grabbed her, steadied her, and then gave Anya his left shoulder to help her up. She leaned on him heavily, got up, and started forward. Well, okay.

The medic grabbed the soaked blanket and bundled it into a plastic bag. The old woman watched intently as they paced across the narrow deck. Slowly-- Anya was having a hard time staying upright, and Clint could only help her with one arm. He concentrated on planting his feet carefully.

The medic got on Anya’s other side, lending her some stability. “I can’t believe she wants to do this,” the medic gasped. “She’s got maybe ten minutes, tops?”

The old woman said something; Anya replied. “For first birth, hospital,” the old woman translated. “On her back. She didn’t like it. Second time, she stayed at home and walked. Better.”

“That’s— great,” the medic muttered.

They hit a patch of turbulence. Anya slipped. Clint grabbed her, and grabbed the nearest bulkhead strap with his right arm, breathing out fast to control the pain and disguise the noise he made. The plane leveled out, but Anya made a _really_ unhappy noise, and squatted down where she was. “What’s wrong, did that hurt her?”

“She says it’s time.” With obvious effort, the old woman stood and started to hobble across the narrow deck. Clint helped her the few steps across. The medic finished washing her arms again and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. The old woman crouched next to Anya, nearly toppling Clint over with her before she was safely down, and started to croon something that sounded vaguely comforting.

The shouting got louder. He hovered, trying not to look. When they hit more turbulence, he had to displace the old woman to hold Anya up, because she couldn’t keep her footing as the plane bucked. And she still refused to lie down. Her shouts had a panicked edge; when she paused for breath, he heard muttered swearing from the pilot. _Tell me about it, pal._

The medic was crouched even lower than Anya, so that she could reach to do… whatever it was she was doing. He sank down onto his knees so he could be more stable, planting them in a dry patch, and tried to ignore the growing throb in his other shoulder.

And the _screaming_. Oh, God, the screaming. He vaguely remembered one of Mom’s friends, a kind of hippy-dippy librarian, coming over for lunch when Dad had still let Mom have friends over, and talking about the ‘miracle of birth.’ If he ever heard an idiot say that again, he'd drag them to the nearest obstetrics ward and leave them there.

“Tell her she’s almost there!” The medic’s voice was muffled. “Tell her to push— _now_ —“

The old woman translated. They kept going with this cycle of “Push, _now_.” Eventually Anya’s screaming changed pitch. No, that was a different scream— a baby. Oh, good.

It still took some time to... come all the way out, accompanied by a rush of blood and... other stuff that alarmed Clint, but didn't seem panic the medic. But finally the medic was wiping off the slimiest child Clint had ever seen, and trying to wipe off Anya, too. At the medic’s signal, Clint helped Anya down to the floor until she could settle down, holding her baby. Anya smiled tremulously, and tugged the top of her dress down. Clint turned away as the medic leaned forward to help her. His part here was definitely done. Definitely. _Right?_

The old woman took his place, cooing over the baby, and talking with Anya in rapid Latverian. The way they were both smiling was reassuring. The medic kept cleaning up and watched them, looking very pleased with herself. Well, with reason; she’d just delivered a high-risk baby in a bouncy plane with no equipment.

His ambitions for the next hour were very low. He just wanted get on the ground without any more complications, and have a very strong drink.

At Paris there was a medical team waiting for Anya and her baby, and a wheelchair for the old lady. He stayed out of their way. He was exhausted, but his shoulder hurt too badly for sleep. He needed more painkillers first.

He looked up when he saw boots in front of him— the co-pilot and pilot, finished with the post-flight. The co-pilot looked amused. “Did you have fun?”

Clint ignored him and got to his feet.

“Someone’s waiting for you.”

“What?”

“Out there.”

Clint grabbed his stuff and followed them out. He looked around until he saw—

“I thought you were in Hong Kong, sir,” he said when he was within speaking distance.

“We finished in Hong Kong four hours ago. Medical asked me to be present because they were afraid you would be extremely uncooperative. You can imagine how much I liked being detached from my actual work to chaperone you.”

Coulson looked and sounded tired, possibly why he was so irritable. “Detached from your actual work? Yeah, tell me about it.” Coulson turned towards the building; Clint fell into step beside him. “Pretty high-handed of Blake to order a medevac without telling me.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I’ll _get_ the damned scans, Coulson. They didn't need to send you.”

“Do I need to read you the part of Doctor Parker’s assessment that talks about the high probability of permanent damage with any further stress?”

The terror that he’d been trying to ignore for twelve hours flared back to life. “He said he couldn’t tell me anything without better equipment.”

“He lied.”

“And no one thought to _tell me_ ?” He stopped, making Coulson stop to if he wanted to continue the conversation. “Why? Because I'm _The Asset,_ a tool and not a brain, and I can't be trusted to look after myself? If I wasn't supposed to use the arm, why didn't anyone--” He cut himself off. Parker _had_ told him. But, damn it, he hadn't said anything about--

_If he had, would you've let her fall on the plane?_

He swallowed. “Sir, there's no reason to keep me in the dark about my own medical issues. Especially not something like _this_ , it's--” _Counterproductive_ would be putting it mildly.

Coulson sighed. “I'm sorry. But cut Blake some slack. He's under a lot of stress.”

“Did he— Coulson, did Parker really say that?”

“Yes.”

Clint walked silently. If Coulson wasn’t saying anything more— his mind supplied all sorts of possibilities. What was _high_ ? What was _further stress_ ? Did grabbing a bulkhead strap to keep three hundred pounds of person upright count as stress? _Is this why Coulson’s so pissed? He thinks I injured myself right out of S.H.I.E.L.D.?_

He knew the way as well as Coulson did, but Coulson still walked him all the way to Medical. Just at the door, he turned— “Clint.”

“Yeah?”

Coulson handed him a handkerchief. “You have... snot? amniotic fluid? something on your face.”

Clint snatched the handkerchief and scrubbed at his face until he was sure it was… fluid-free. “Were you going to tell me?”

“I just did. Give me your bow and quiver; I’ll have R&D check them.”

Clint swallowed again. He handed Coulson his bow. He appreciated that Coulson handled it carefully, almost reverently. He swung the comforting weight of his quiver off his shoulder--

_What if I never wear it again?_

He almost pulled it back. But if this was the end for him, then treating his arrows like, like a Goddamned teddy bear, wouldn’t help anything. He shoved the quiver at Coulson, turned away, and went inside before he did or said anything he regretted.

He didn’t even have a chance to sit down before someone saw him and led him deeper into the medical wing. They’d been expecting him— they’d been _waiting_ for him.

That wasn’t good.

*

Clint stared at the ceiling.

He'd been there a while. He couldn't think of anything worth getting up for.

He kept his right arm at an angle that took pressure off his shoulder. He wasn't stupid.

He wanted enough whiskey to stop feeling things. But that would've required moving.

After a while, someone knocked on the door. He wanted it to be Nat, but that was so improbable as to be impossible. He didn't know where she was, and...

He'd thought they were on good terms as she recovered from Pittsburgh, but he hadn't forgotten what they'd each said on that roof in Brno, and he knew she hadn't, either.

A little voice in the back of his mind said this would be easier if she were around. He told it to shut the fuck up. He was an adult. He didn't need his hand held through everything.

Another knock. He ignored it. Eventually they would stop and go away.

But the door slid open. He didn't look up. He didn't want to encourage Coulson to stick around.

Coulson waited. Clint waited. Coulson could be patient but Clint could outwait him and, probably, God.

“Tell me what they said,” Coulson finally said.

Clint didn't believe he didn't know already. “Use of the shoulder, two to four weeks. One in four odds I might not shoot again.”

“Could be worse,” Coulson said after a minute.

Clint bit back all the angry things he wanted to respond with.

“You could have lost use of it completely.”

Clint was irritated enough to put the effort into turning his head and staring at Coulson. “Your bedside manner’s even worse than Natasha’s.”

“You’ll shoot again. They're just hedging their bets.”

Clint waited for Coulson to go away now that he’d delivered his unreassurance. Coulson didn’t go away.

“So now what,” Clint asked finally, dully.

“What do you mean?”

“What use am I to anyone here?”

“If you think your only value to S.H.I.E.L.D. is as an archer, then you haven’t been paying attention these past seven years.” Coulson paused to let that sink in. “As you train back up to your bow, you can use other weapons—“

“I don’t like guns.”

“No, but you're an adult. You can use other weapons. And we can use your eyes, and your brain. Your insights are valuable, you have seven years of field experience on some of the most difficult missions S.H.I.E.L.D. has ever run, and your record is nearly unparalleled. You have a very unique perspective and you're detail-oriented beyond just the visual.”

Clint thought about that. “Coulson?”

“Yes?”

“Go away.”

Coulson, thankfully, went away.

*

Clint tried. He really did.

He went through old case files ten hours a day while still hopped up on painkillers. He went to Medical every day to get scanned. When they switched out the painkillers for physical therapy, he gritted his teeth, didn't snap at the nurse who assured him this was progress, and went back to the case files at four am when it hurt too much to sleep. He freaked out his physical therapist by being deadpan and got a mandatory referral to a S.H.I.E.L.D. psychologist, but he hadn't meant to.

The worst was during the day, when he saw people stare in the hallways and heard sympathetic murmurs made to people who didn't know. He alternated between pretending to ignore them all, and glaring at them until they abruptly shut up.

Or maybe the worst was during the night, when he couldn't sleep, and just stared at the ceiling and saw the life he'd built with his blood and sweat and other less savory bodily fluids falling down around him. He'd been such an idiot to imagine that he'd won, just because he'd gotten out of the circus and out of the mercs and into stable employment where he had-- people he liked. People who respected him. Such an _idiot_. Nothing was ever permanent.

The insomnia got worse. The cold he hadn't shaken since Latveria just added insult to injury, and even the cold medicine he took didn't let him sleep. When he looked in the mirror he knew why people quickly averted their eyes, now, when they saw him in the corridors: His eyes were getting sunken, surrounded by dark circles. At least they'd stopped staring.

Most nights around three am he ended up holding his phone, staring at it. But what could he say if he made the call? _Sorry, it's probably over?_ Eventually he started taking out his phone battery at night so he wouldn't do something stupid. It wasn't like anyone would be trying to reach him, anyway.

He'd mapped the entire surface of his ceiling so he could see it with his eyes closed. He needed something new. He needed a new ceiling to stare at.

When Coulson unlocked his office, Clint was sprawled in the chair. His legs took up most of the floor space, and the back of the chair dug into the back of his neck.

He heard Coulson pause. “Clint.”

Clint opened his eyes.

“Why are you doing a disturbingly accurate impression of a corpse in my office at seven in the morning?”

Clint straightened up and tried to look like a competent agent. Sniffling and wiping his nose with his hand probably ruined the attempt. “I'm requesting leave, sir.”

Coulson looked at him with the disturbing perception Clint sometimes hated, and handed him a handkerchief.

“Please. Coulson. I need to get out of here.” His voice dropped, then cracked on the congestion. He sniffled again.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Coulson asked after a minute.

“Yeah.”

“Will you be coming back?”

“Of course.” Clint pretended that was the most ridiculous question he'd ever heard.

“I'd tell you that running away from your problems doesn't solve them,” Coulson said after a minute, “but you'd be well within your rights to tell me to fuck off.”

Clint waited.

“Put in the request, and I'll approve it.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clint got out of there before Coulson could change his mind, or ask more uncomfortable questions.

He couldn't risk ruining his shoulder on the climb up to his cabin. He found somewhere else to hole up, where no one would be looking for him. He brought a couple hundred dollars' worth of liquor with him. Without the case files, he needed another numbing agent.

The booze took the edge off of everything. It made staring at the ceiling tolerable. Getting out of bed was optional. So was showering. So was eating, really, he didn't have much appetite. He'd reached the full-on nose faucet stage of his cold, so he entertained himself by seeing how long he could go without blowing it, to spare his cracked skin.

He stumbled into the bathroom one day and glanced blearily in the mirror. Days of stubble made him do a double take. He thought he'd seen-- he looked like-- he'd done, he'd done _exactly_ the same thing as--

His face flushed with shame and horror. He raised his hand to smash the mirror and make it all _go away--_

 _–_ and froze _._

 _Smashing things to prove you're not your dad? Great call, Barton_.

He groaned.

_How 'bout we problem solve some better way that doesn't involve slicing up that hand? Y'know, the only one you can use freely?_

He lowered his hand, used the toilet, washed his hands, lathered his face, and shaved. The warm water felt good on his chilled skin. He did his chin and jaw first and happened to leave a not-bad-looking mustache. Oddly enough, it didn't look like Dad at all.

He shrugged. _Sure, why not?_

The steam from the faucet opened the snot-faucet enough so he could tell how badly he reeked. He took a shower and put on clean clothes. His head ached, but the steam from the shower felt even better than before. He'd probably be in the hacking-up stage in a day or two.

He gingerly toweled off his hair with one hand, and noticed he was _starving_. That pretty much finished his attempt to be a professional drunk, because he was never, ever gonna get behind the wheel while not sober. So he either had to go hungry, or walk somewhere for food.

He was probably fine. He'd driven on a beer or two, he knew his limits. He walked anyway.

He grudgingly admitted the fresh air felt good after days in a stale motel room. So did stretching his legs. He ate at a little diner and got a couple slices of pie to go for breakfast. The stars were out by the time he started the walk back.

His phone rang. He eyed the name on the screen, and finally answered. “Coulson.”

“Barton.”

“Time for my daily check-in with my parole officer?”

“Indeed. And you actually sound sober. Well done.”

“I, uh... hadn't realized you could, uh, tell. Sir.”

Coulson's silence was very pointed. Clint winced.

“I was beginning to think I'd made a mistake in letting you go,” Coulson said finally.

Clint sighed. It would've happened anyway, probably, no matter where he was. “No.”

“Good. Whatever I've done to you wouldn't justify leaving me to Agent Romanoff's tender mercies when she found out.”

Clint managed a startled breath of laughter at that one.

“How's the shoulder?”

Clint made a non-committal noise, and sniffled.

It was Coulson's turn to sigh. “We both remember that I taught you about the existence of multi-syllabic words shortly after you came in.”

“I joined an amateur opera, sir, used 'em all up.”

He could almost _hear_ Coulson's eyes rolling. “Is the physical therapy, that I'm very sure you're doing, helping?”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence, sir. Um, it hurts a lot. But not in a permanent kind of way.”

Coulson paused. “Clint, is this actually helping you?”

He didn't really know how to explain it to Coulson, who'd always had a plan three steps ahead, who'd never faced losing a huge chunk of who he was, like this. Who, Clint was pretty sure, had never lost in his life. And he was too tired to try. “You ever had a fever, sir?”

“You know I have.”

“Sometimes you just gotta let it burn.”

“That's terribly reassuring.”

“Hey, uh... I think I'll be back in a couple of days.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, I'm sure the case files have missed me terribly.”

“That's not why. I'm designing the spring training exercises this year. I want you to help. We need to make them... sufficiently rigorous.”

Clint felt one corner of his mouth turn up, reluctantly, at the bait. Then the other. “Sir, you are an _evil_ man.”

“I'll leave you to your delusions, Barton. Don't do anything stupid.” They hung up.

He went back to his room. He capped the bottle of whiskey he'd been working on. After a moment's thought, he stuffed the remaining bottles bag in the bag. He'd never worried much about becoming an alcoholic; in the circus, he and Barney hadn't said anything about their past, which included not saying “But our dad was an alcoholic” when offered beer around the campfire in what was clearly intended as a masculine rite of passage. So he'd known from a pretty early age that he hadn't gotten their dad's susceptibility, at least not all of it. Apparently, it had all gone to Barney.

That was something. Even if he never shot again, he might be the first Barton in a while to live past forty.

He shook himself. Still no reason to tempt fate. This was boring. There were some highways nearby he hadn't been on in a long time. He'd try to find the most horrifying piece of memorabilia kitsch he could bring back for Coulson... and work up the nerve to call Natasha.

There was a big difference between being down and being out. The thought of never shooting again was still a harsh ache in the center of his chest, but... other things would hurt even worse, and if he kept doing what he'd been doing, he'd end up doing those things, too. Basic tactics: don't let your enemy psyche you into giving up just 'cause they had the advantage.

He sniffled vigorously. It took him less than five minutes to pack.

*

“Did you hear what happened to Barton?”

Sumter’s voice was hushed, but Natasha wasn’t a spy for nothing. She kept cleaning her gun like she hadn’t heard anything.

“They say he hurt his shoulder so bad he can’t shoot anymore.”

_What._

She nearly gave in and demanded information in front of all the other agents. But Wilson called Natasha to the front of the plane to consult with her about the infiltration plan. He claimed to want the benefit of her expertise, but he really wanted her to rubber stamp his opinion. He said it was too close to go to change anything. What did that even mean? This wasn’t a theatrical production. Covert operatives too inflexible to accept changes in the plan tended to die quickly.

She reminded him that her _expertise_ was such that she was getting in and blowing the substation before any of the other teams could move. By the time Wilson caved, Sumter was doing a final weapons check with her unit, and Natasha had to get ready for the jump. If she was at all distracted, she might get people who were depending on her killed. And sloppiness might convince Coulson that she wasn't ready to be back in the field after all. She couldn't risk that.

If they benched her _again_ \-- She'd already qualified in Farsi, and Medic Two, and nearly every damned non-physical thing S.H.I.E.L.D. offered. But concentrating now, after what she'd heard, was harder than it had ever been before.

She was still the Black Widow, and she got the job done. She waited impatiently for the debrief to be over; Wilson's weren't as efficient as Coulson's. As soon as they were done, she found a computer terminal. She called up Clint’s file and looked at the latest medical records, but the scans didn’t mean much to her and she couldn’t find the doctors’ notes in the pages of medicalese. His location was listed as unknown.

She walked into Coulson’s office in Manhattan five hours later, tired, hungry, thirsty, and aggravated. “What happened to Clint?” she demanded.

It wasn't often she could surprise Coulson. “What are you doing here?”

“Finding out what happened to my partner.”

He frowned at her. She knew her fatigue showed on her expression; she didn’t care enough to keep that from happening. And he could probably see the minor injuries she still needed to have treated. “Walk with me.”

She grasped the back of the chair in front of his desk. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me _what_ _happened_ to him.” She was giving something away by showing so much emotion, but she _needed to know_.

Coulson looked at her, thoughtful. If he dragged this out any longer she'd be tempted to use foul means to get it out of him. “He hurt his shoulder badly while defending civilians from Doombots.” Coulson rattled off some medical-sounding jargon that sounded extremely painful.

“How badly? Will he shoot again?”

“If he's careful... probably.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

“He took leave.”

“You let him _leave?_ ”

“He wasn't doing very well.” The strain of worry showed on Coulson's face. “It seemed like the best option.”

 _Clint not doing well after a possibly-debilitating shoulder injury? Do you suppose water might also be wet, Coulson?_ “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I thought it should come from him. I wasn't sure if he had.”

“He didn't,” she snarled. “So you let him leave and go God knows where to do God knows what?”

Coulson rubbed his palm over his face and pointed to the chair. She sat down and stared at him. “Twice, I nearly pulled you from your mission to come back,” he said quietly. “I thought he might talk to you since he wouldn't to me. But I couldn't justify it.”

“He wouldn't talk to you?”

“When I brought Clint in,” Coulson said after a minute, “I thought he was trying to win an award for Surly Agent of the Year. He didn't talk to _anyone_. I think he hated everyone and everything, himself included. It was like trying to train a thundercloud. If he said more than ten sentences in a day, it was a landmark. It was one reason I was so relieved when he made friends with Agent Morse.”

How much did Coulson know-- she let that go, for now.

“I hadn't seen him like that for years. Until now.”

After a minute, she folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t believe you didn’t try at _all_ to determine where he went.”

Coulson looked at her.

She looked back.

“He found and disabled the tracker on the New Jersey Turnpike,” Coulson admitted. “If he hadn't, I was going to send you after him.”

“Have you heard from him at all?”

“Yes. He spiralled into a drunken haze, then climbed back out of it.”

She couldn't even hide her wince, and mentally kicked herself for that.

“He seems to be doing better. He's on the road and sending me threatening texts about Americana chickens.” Coulson frowned. “I don't even know what those _are_.”

She laughed in spite of herself. Coulson looked up and gave her a smile that bordered on fond. She _was_ tired, or maybe he was. Then he frowned. “You skipped your med check, didn’t you.”

“Would I do something like that?”

In her room, she took out the phone she only used for personal business. He hadn't tried to contact her. Maybe he didn't want to hear from her. Maybe after what had happened in Brno...

Maybe nothing she could offer had any meaning to him any more.

But this was Clint. She had to be sure, even if making sure was-- painful.

She still nearly hung up at the first ring. It rang, and rang. Finally: “H’lo?”

“Do you know how much I _dislike_ getting my news by overhearing, ‘Did you hear what happened to Barton’?”

There was a long pause. “Hi, Nat.”

“‘Hi, Nat,’ is not an answer. ‘Hi, Nat’ is an evasion. Who else would it be?”

“Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes?” He sounded more awake now.

She rolled her eyes. Then she paused. It was easier to be angry than admit concern. “How are you?”

Another long pause. “I’m…”

“I’m,” she prompted.

“I’m... okay.”

“Are you really?”

“I’ve been _better_. But… yeah. I think I’ll be okay.”

There was enough sincerity in his voice that she believed him. _Why didn’t you tell me?_ But knowing wouldn’t change the fact that he hadn’t, and it wouldn’t change the fact that she cared about that more than was reasonable.

_Having normal human emotions isn’t a liability._

_It is in our line of work._

And if she didn’t have them, did that make her abnormal? Did she care? The Red Room had taken many things from her. Some, like this, she wasn’t sure were safe to take back.

“How, uh… are you?”

“I'm fine.”

Pause.

“Coulson was pretty cranky when I left, how is he now?”

“I think you terrified him with the chickens.”

“Oh, I got one for you, too.”

“ _Barton_.”

“What kind of--” He stopped abruptly. “What kind of, uh, partner would I be if I didn't bring you back a souvenir?”

“A live one.”

He laughed.

“Why... didn't you tell me?”

She heard him swallow. “I just... couldn't. Talk about it. Don't take it personal.”

“I think my _feelings_ can stand the hit,” she said drily. She’d called _because_ of her feelings, of course, but he didn’t need to know that. Probably best if she forgot it, too.

“I didn’t…” He took a breath. “I might never shoot again, Nat. What else’ve I got... if...?”

“… the best eyesight of anyone on the planet, great reflexes, a perfectly functional left arm, and a wealth of combat experience and strategic thinking?”

Silence.

“And also, your wit and sparkling personality,” she added.

“Well,” he said after a minute. “Now you’re just tryin’ to embarrass me.”

“Oh, no, Barton. When it comes to your wit and sparkling personality, you need no help embarrassing yourself.”

He gave a soft _huff_ of laughter.

“Hey. Clint.”

“What?”

“If they tell you you can’t shoot— if something like that happens—“

He made a soft, unhappy noise.

“— if you try to disappear from S.H.I.E.L.D. and from me and Coulson, I _will_ hunt you down. You know I could. Don’t even think about pulling that shit.”

“Aw, Tasha, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Yes you did,” she snapped. Then she cringed. What was _wrong_ with her?

If she was going to go out on this extremely dangerous limb of having _feelings_ — of having a friend, a friend like _Clint_ — then she wanted it to mean something. She hadn’t deliberately broken every one of the Red Room’s rules for the change in herself to be completely unapparent.

“Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

She changed the subject with determination. “Remember that footage I had on the plane back from Brno?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s definitely Coulson.”

He made a resigned noise. “Do you really _want_ to know how they wrecked the hotel room? There aren't a lot of options.”

“I really want to tease Coulson about it.”

“Fair point.”

She didn’t have much else to say. She wasn’t used to having actual social conversations over the phone, let alone... this. “Hey, Clint.”

“Yeah.”

“If you— need anything…”

“Yeah. I know who to call. Just don’t cross the streams.”

“What streams?”

“How do you make _Ghostbusters_ references and not know-- never mind.”

They hung up. Since no one was around to see her, she let herself keep smiling.

*

She got sent out before he was back, and then he was doing reconnaissance in the Northwest Territories when _she_ got back. At least being in the field would make him happy. She called him four more times, knowing he couldn't pick up, and left an obnoxious voicemail each time. Because she could.

A knock woke her in the middle of the night. It was Coulson. “We need you.”

She stepped aside to let him in while she got the rest of her weapons. “Got thirty seconds?”

“We even have sixty.”

“Great. What’s the mission?” She snapped her Widow’s Bites into place, and tied the _shuriken_ , in their special sheaths, further up her sleeves.

“We’re going after a man believed to have faked some study results. The clinical trial in question was supposedly a treatment for aggressive lymphoma, but we think the drug induces a chemical dependency that allows the subject to basically be held for ransom. Keep paying, or it gets unpleasant.”

“‘Unpleasant’?” She checked her backup gun and holstered it.

“Pain. Sickness. Death. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t want it falling into the wrong hands.”

“There are right hands for something like that?”

“You’ve killed with poison.”

She double-checked her knives. “I'm not a moral authority.” She wanted to say that she never would've taken a job administering the agent he was describing… but could she have rationalized it by thinking of everything that was happening to the girls she was trying to save?

She pocketed extra rounds. “I’m ready if you are.”

Traffic was light on the long drive to D.C. They were waiting for more intel to come in, and Coulson didn’t want to risk being seen getting off any planes. He filled her in quickly— it sounded straightforward. Find the man, track him, figure out what he’d done with the real results. Missions that sounded straightforward rarely were, but at least this one wasn’t starting with, “We need you to steal a tortoise.”

She slept for the first hour, waking when Coulson stopped for coffee and donuts. “So, Bangalore.” She reached over and snagged two donuts from the package. Normally his reflexes would've been good enough to stop her, but he was passing a semi on a narrow stretch of highway and didn’t have any room to flinch.

“It’s a city in southern India. Population five million at the last census. Fantastic place to eat if you like fusion food. What about it?”

“You were there with Elizabeth Malcolm thirteen years ago.”

“Was I?”

“You’re not _that_ old, Coulson. Your memory shouldn’t be failing yet. You should get that checked out.”

“Thank you for your concern. It’s so thoughtful of you.”

She waited until he was holding his cup of coffee to his mouth. “Did you wreck the room with violence, sex, or violent sex?”

He didn’t choke. He was too Coulson for that. “You must be really bored if you’re asking direct questions. I could find us a nice country station to listen to.”

 _Clint, you snitch_. But she wasn’t asking because she thought she’d get an answer. It was all part of the game, and the game was called “Coulson’s blood pressure is criminally low.”

“On the list of scandalous things I’ve done in my life, wrecking a hotel room in Bangalore is nowhere near the top,” he added.

“Then what is?”

He passed another semi. “Back in ’91, I cut the tags off a mattress.”

“That’s… not scandalous.”

“I wasn’t the consumer.”

“Still not scandalous.”

“I once failed to help an old lady cross the street.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven.”

“Coulson, you juvenile delinquent.”

“For three unfortunate months in 1978, I had a mullet.”

She eyed him. “Are there… _pictures_?”

“No. What do you take me for, a _bad_ secret agent?”

She settled a little deeper in her seat. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“That’s your prerogative.”

“Want me to drive?”

“No, I’m fine. You should sleep some more. I promise not to doodle on you while you’re out.”

“Nice fingers you got there, Coulson. It would be a shame if something were to... _happen_ to them.” She put her feet up and went back to sleep.

*

Some time later, she checked the side mirror and came fully awake. “We're being followed.”

“Yes. We picked them up just north of Philly.”

“We haven't even done anything yet.”

“I know.”

“Aren't you going to lose them?”

“I'm waiting for the right moment. I’m not Barton. There’s no need to turn this into a high speed car chase.” He looked over his shoulder, signaled like a conscientious old lady, floored it, and pulled across five lanes of traffic to a chorus of angry horns. Taken by surprise, the grey sedan was caught behind a semi.

She caught a sign as it flashed by. “We're not far from Wilmington. Get off at the first exit, I'll get us some alternate transport. Whoever they are, they know what this car looks like.”

The grey sedan reappeared in the rearview mirror, but it never had a chance to get close— Coulson pulled ahead of a wave of heavy traffic merging. They stayed sandwiched in between two semis until the exit she’d indicated. He pulled off and accelerated hard. They made it around the curve, and out of sight, before she saw the grey car.

“Where now?”

“There’s a used car lot about two miles away. We’ll ditch near there.”

The sedan did not reappear by the time Coulson pulled off into a clump of woods. They slipped out the back of the lot and split up to be inconspicuous. She gave him directions.

She got to the shed first, and was working on the lock when he stepped silently around the corner of the house. They both lowered their guns. He watched what she was doing. “You brought us to a specific location for some B&E?”

“Not exactly.”

“You own this place?”

“What’s inside is mine.” The lock clicked; she pulled open the door, and stepped past the dusty tarps, old two-by-fours, and rusty tools. In the back, behind a pile of old fencing, was her bike. She handed one helmet to Coulson, then checked the inside of hers to make sure nothing had nested inside.

Coulson put the helmet on. “Try not to crash. I left my Kevlar suit in the wash.”

She dug the keys out of their hiding place. “I’ve never crashed.”

“How many crashes have you _caused_?”

“A… small number.” A medium number.

Outside, she started the engine and straddled the bike. “Just hang onto my waist. Have you ever ridden as a passenger before?”

“It’s been a while.”

“I drive, you shoot?” If they were lucky, there wouldn’t be any shooting, but since when were they lucky?

“Got it.” He hesitated, then climbed on behind her and put his hands on her hips. “Let’s go.”

She took them on side streets and main arteries until they were a few exits down from the one they’d taken. They'd ditched the car, and their faces were covered now. They should be untraceable.

It was a surprisingly uneventful ride. They pulled off once, for gas and to watch the cars that came down the off-ramp after them. They took turns using the bathroom; Coulson pulled out the rest of the donuts. “You’d better not get powdered sugar on my clothes,” she warned. That was one of the most ridiculous things she’d ever had to say. Right up there with _It’s the wrong tortoise_. She frowned at him. He’d bitten his lip bloody. “I’m a good driver, Coulson.”

He smiled. “I know you are.”

When they got close enough, they ditched the bike. Coulson went to check out McCormack's office; she settled in to watch the house. Their mark was rich and powerful enough that if they messed this up, even S.H.I.E.L.D. would have a hard time getting another chance. She signaled Coulson when the target turned up at his house, driven by a bodyguard. The woman who opened the door was also unusually muscular, carrying a gun, and wearing an earpiece.

“HQ says someone turned up in a hospital in Anacostia with the same symptoms we think McCormack’s drug produces,” Coulson said in her ear.

She tapped her earpiece to acknowledge. Why was McCormack home in the middle of the day? He was the CEO of his own drug development company; why wasn’t he out schmoozing with potential clients or bribing federal regulators to look the other way?

He went upstairs to his home office, and opened his file cabinets. He pulled out huge stacks of documents—

He reached down with a few in his hand. Then he reached up for a few more. And a few more. “I think he’s shredding his records,” she muttered.

“ _Stop him_.”

She shot out McCormack’s window. The bullet embedded itself in the wall above his head, missing him by a good margin. She followed it with another, grabbed the hot shell casings, and then ran.

They'd be searching the area soon, but the farther she went, the more people might see her running. The houses here were all large, with plenty of upper windows that showed broad views. She found a house that looked empty; if anyone were home, she would have seen them at the windows facing the creek, looking to see what had happened. She hauled herself up to the second-story balcony, where she could lay low behind the substantial stone planters. She turned and trained her binoculars in the right direction.

She watched the police arrive and spread out through the woods. Either they’d spread out with remarkable efficiency once finding no one at the spot the shots had been fired from, or no one had been able to tell them where the shots had come from. McCormack himself was being bundled into the SUV under heavy guard. The office was cordoned off. McCormack’s desire to find out who’d tried to kill him would probably override his desire to intimidate the police into staying out of that room… for now. She needed to get inside and examine those records before that changed. But McCormack certainly hadn’t left the police alone— yes, she saw at least two bodyguards remaining, including the woman who had opened the door for them.

As long as the police were in that room, the documents were probably safe. She would keep watch, and wait for an opportunity to break in.

The day passed slowly. She drank some foul-tasting water from a watering can and wished for more of Coulson's donuts when her stomach growled. Morning became afternoon. The police presence in the neighborhood dissipated; the officers were concentrated at the house now. Another hour or two, and there were only a few detectives left processing evidence at the house. One of the bodyguards was watching them in the office. Those stacks of papers would show up in the pictures the detectives were taking. If those suddenly disappeared from the scene of the crime, someone would wonder if anything in them explained the shooting. McCormack was powerful enough to bury an inquiry, but he hadn’t gotten there through deliberate carelessness.

She spotted a place below where she could lie concealed and still watch the McCormack house, and mapped a route there. At the top of the small hill, she lay flat on her stomach; criss-crossed fallen tree trunks and accumulated small brush hid her from anyone who wasn't looking closely. She waited. The day was cold. She wriggled one body part at a time, trying to keep warm.

The sun was going down when Coulson said in her ear, “I checked the office. I couldn’t find anything. What’s your status?”

She heard sirens in the background. “The documents are intact. I’m waiting for the police to leave so I can take a look at them.”

“McCormack showed up here several hours ago, very angry. Your doing?”

“I took a few shots at him.”

“I’m going to hit the offices of the group that did the study next. Keep me updated.”

She needed to go now: it was dim enough to conceal her, but bright enough that automatic security lights weren’t on yet. She could get around the remaining detectives. She wriggled down the hill towards the creek bed, and followed the creek towards McCormack's house, staying low. The creek circled around through thick woods at the back of the property; that was her best approach. The setting sun illuminated the lenses of the security cameras on this side of the house. Careful study picked out their blind spots. There weren’t many, and the fence was entirely covered.

 _Just like in New York_ . _Except for the rocket launchers. I hope._

And the lack of Clint. She would have felt better with him covering her back here. Even with him making stupid jokes over the comms.

She climbed the tallest tree overlooking the fence, steadied herself on the bough, took a running start, and leapt into space. She landed hard on the roof of the pool enclosure, and crawled up and over the metal supports to the second-story roof of the house. Her best bet would be to go in through the window she’d shattered— no alarm, and the guards were obeying the crime tape for now. If she were quick, she could get in between their glances into the room.

The shingles were rough against her palms as she crawled to the office. She looked down through the window. If she were McCormack, she would have a camera _there,_ in one of the books on the western two-thirds of the south wall, where power cords and wires could be concealed, at a height to capture faces. If McCormack had done the same thing, she could stay below its range if she were careful.

She untaped the tarp from the window, slid to the floor, and replaced the tarp. She wriggled across the carpet until she was next to the bookcase, out of sight of the door. Yes: there was a cord running behind the bookshelves, going up at least four feet.

Silently, she grabbed the nearest stack. If the documents were a little disarranged later, wind around the tarp would be the obvious culprit— the camera would show that no one had come through the door. Tax documents going back ten years— ten years?— and long lists of real estate holdings: McCormack was either paranoid or very thorough, to keep all these copies in paper. Or had he had the digital ones altered?

These were all financials. No glaring red flags, like bankruptcy proceedings, that would give him a motive for faking his study results. She—

A creak in the hallway outside. She flattened herself to the floor. She couldn't see the doorway around the desk. Whoever was there shifted their weight and moved on.

Wind beat against the tarp and then popped it away from the frame. She kept a tight hold on the papers so they wouldn’t blow everywhere and attract attention. The footsteps stopped, then came back. _Wrong call_ \-- that guard was alert--

The police tape stretched as someone lifted it near the door. The female guard poked her head into sight. Natasha lunged up with her back to the camera and put her momentum into a blow to the other woman’s head. But the guard deflected it enough that it only dazed her. Natasha grabbed the nearest stack of papers and darted for the window— the guard went for her gun— Natasha kicked her hard in the wrist. She dropped it. The guard grabbed for her, mostly missed, but got a handful of her shirt. The force sent Natasha into the broken glass of the window. She hissed and pulled back, got her legs around the guard’s neck and brought her to the ground, kicked the offending shards out of the window, and dove through.

She landed harder than she should have. The glass had torn a long hole in her side, shallow-- her uniform had turned the force of the cut. She pressed the papers to her ribs as she ran for the fence— she couldn’t leave a trail of blood for dogs

Noise behind her. She wove to throw off their aim. Almost there— she grabbed a link high on the fence, jumped, pulled herself up, and swung over the top. The cut in her side burned with the stretch. She landed in heavy leaf litter and sprinted for the trees. A bullet narrowly missed her head. They were shooting to kill.

She raced for the deepest part of the woods. The Red Room had drilled them in running over and over and over, the punishment for slowness always different, and always horrible. She had a tiny scar, just above her hairline, from one failure. Ivan had known how to inflict maximum damage with minimum physical evidence, but he'd gotten carried away, that time.

She was faster than anyone they could send after her, but she couldn’t outrun vehicles. She used her memory and the traffic noise to find the nearest main road. The culvert underneath held a few inches of fetid, cold water. Her boot scraped over something squirmy. She shot forward with unplanned speed. Probably just a bug at this time of year, but she couldn't afford a bite from a venomous snake.

On the other side was a small patch of woods with houses on three sides. She needed to hide somewhere until she stopped bleeding. And she needed to clean that cut-- the culvert water wouldn't do it any favors. She tapped her earpiece. “I was interrupted searching the office. I’m on my way out of the area.”

Coulson tapped his earpiece in response. If he couldn’t talk, then he was probably still at the research offices.

She found the next large road. When she was sure no one was following or watching her, she slipped out of the woods and darted across it. There was a large shopping center down the road-- good. She wasn’t going there, but her pursuers would have to check it to make sure she hadn't.

She headed steadily into the darker, quieter suburbs, following a drainage ditch that hid her from the back windows of the houses. She was looking for a dark house with no cars, and preferably some signs of neglect. An outbuilding could work, but she wanted someplace warmer; it was a cold spring night, and she was damp.

The street lights got farther apart. The roads narrowed and lost their sidewalks. The lawns stopped being uniform and acquired some personality. She skulked along the ditch, side throbbing, and kept her eyes open.

 _There_. That was promising. No lights, no TV, deserted driveway. The gutter hung off the roof, and the grass was high. A large tree limb was down right in front of the back door. Chances were good that no one was home.

She watched for a while longer before dashing across the lawn. The back windows were all locked, but a frame was loose. She carefully wriggled it until the latch came free from its catch, and slipped inside. The house was musty and silent, but it was furnished, so the water might still be on. She would lie low and find out if the double incidents at McCormack's house had prompted a manhunt.

A creak on the stairs— was someone home after all? She’d been silent-- no one would know she was there. She crouched in the darkest corner.

Whoever was coming was moving stealthily. _Had_ she been noticed? Damn _it, Romanoff, you’re getting sloppy_ . Madame would have-- _No._ Was she going soft from working with a partner for so long? _Later._ She listened to the footsteps. They were coming towards the hallway on her right. She slipped out of the den to the other hallway to circle through the living room.

The moon came out from behind the clouds, showing an elongated shadow with a gun in its hand. Natasha moved only when it moved. She could still escape, noticed but uncaught, and make plan… whatever plan this was. Plan Q.

The moonlight illuminated the far wall-- and its framed diploma. She stopped moving. _Of all the houses, in all the suburbs, in all the world..._ _I break into_ hers?

The other woman was good, but Natasha still managed to sneak up on her. “You’re Barton’s ex.”

Natasha prepared to hit the floor at the startled gasp— but the gun, aimed at her now, didn't go off. Or waver. “Is he all right?”

That _this_ was her first question of a shadowy midnight intruder in her living room did much to erase the impression Natasha had formed from the little Clint had said. “He’s fine. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Who are you, and why are you here?”

“I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. I thought your house was empty. I was going to ground. Most people wouldn’t have noticed I was here.” Not a brilliant idea, talking about S.H.I.E.L.D. business to outsiders, but she’d read this woman’s file, and knew that she retained her previous high security clearance-- for reasons that were pointedly omitted in the file.

Bobbi Morse smiled self-deprecatingly. “I couldn’t sleep. A nightmare. I think I heard the windows shift when you broke in. Came downstairs for some tea, and smelled the damp.”

“ _Smelled_ —“ Natasha sniffed her stolen clothes. They did have a definite odor of culvert slime. _What is_ wrong _with you, Romanoff?_

“So,” Morse said. “You say you’re a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and you just _happen_ to turn up here?”

Natasha moved slowly, keeping her palm open, and showed her ID. Then she pointed at the mockingbird figurine on the bookshelf. “Did you keep that after you left S.H.I.E.L.D. to remind you that it hadn't been all bad, or did you have the nickname before you came in?”

After a minute, Morse lowered her gun. “The first one.” But she didn’t relax. “Why this house?”

“It looked deserted. No car.”

“I bike to the Metro. It’s good exercise. Heart disease in the family.” She looked pointedly at Natasha’s gun. “This is just a social call?”

Natasha shrugged. “Most people don’t socialize when they’re bleeding, but I’ve never been most people.”

That surprised a quick laugh out of Morse. “Who are you?”

“Natasha Romanoff.”

“There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom at the end of the hall, Agent Romanoff. Help yourself. I won't—“ she glanced down at her gun— “be sleeping any more tonight.”

Natasha peeled out of her wet clothes, and took her time washing her side. The kit was well-stocked; she could stitch the deepest part of the cut. The variety of supplies was another reminder that Bobbi Morse was not an average civilian. When she was done, she listened at the door for any sign of a trap. But all she heard was puttering in the kitchen.

She stood in the doorway and watched Morse pour tea into two mugs. “Sit down.” Morse nodded to the table. Her tone was ambiguous, and could have been interpreted as a polite suggestion.

Natasha wrapped her fingers around one mug, enjoying the warmth. Morse sat across from her. “I give you shelter and supplies, you give me a bit of conversation. Fair?”

“I’ll tell you what I can.”

Morse nodded. “You work with Clint, then.”

Natasha nodded.

“Closely.”

Natasha raised her eyebrow.

Another self-deprecating smile. “Unless he’s gotten a lot chattier, he wouldn’t have told you about me unless he knew you well.”

“Maybe I didn’t find out about you from him.” That was partially true— she’d learned more from Morse’s file, when she’d come across it while injured and bored, than from Clint himself.

“We weren’t _that_ interesting that people would still be gossiping.”

Natasha acknowledged the point. “We’re partners. He brought me in.”

Morse nodded. “Is he still with Coulson?”

“Yes.”

Natasha braced herself for more questions about Clint, but none came. Instead Morse said, “What are you doing here?”

“It’s best if I don’t tell you.”

“Were you followed?”

She retraced her steps, mentally, to reassure herself. She’d crossed water, and two major roads. Even if McCormack got dogs, they couldn’t follow her scent. Security cameras and traffic cameras might give them a general idea, but she’d avoided those fairly well. “No.”

“Good.”

“You work for NIH now,” Natasha said after a pause.

“Yes.”

“Do you like it?”

Morse smiled faintly. “Are we making social conversation now?”

Natasha shrugged. “We could talk about our favorite ways to kill people if you prefer. I’ve heard you were very good at hand-to-hand.”

“I would not prefer.” Morse held her mug where she could smell the steam. “I like it. It’s challenging. I have a chance to do good, and no one shoots at me.”

“Yet you still have your security clearance with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“And yours isn’t high enough to know why?”

Natasha probably could have convinced someone that she was trustworthy with the knowledge. “Fury plays his cards close to his chest.”

Morse took a cautious sip of her tea, then another. “Do you take sugar or lemon?”

“No. Thank you.”

Morse nodded to the stack of papers Natasha still had under her left hand. “Are those important, or did you just need a bandage?”

“Hmm.” Natasha glanced at them. She needed to go through them and tell Coulson if she’d found anything. “What do you do at the NIH?”

“That’s not in my file?”

“Not since four years ago.” Which was curious in its own right.

“My lab studies wound healing. Specifically the coagulation cascade. We’re looking at whether the body sometimes actually over-responds to blood loss, ultimately slowing down healing, and whether there are agents that can ameliorate that process if they’re already in the bloodstream.”

“Sounds like something that could be used for super soldiers.”

Morse shrugged noncommittally. “And what do you do at S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Romanoff?”

“I shoot things, mostly. Sometimes I break into people’s houses in the middle of the night and get caught.” God, she’d gotten caught _twice_ today. Coulson wasn’t going to be happy. _She_ was _very_ unhappy.

Morse shrugged again. “I knew what Clint did. Unless he had a radical career change, it’s not hard to figure out what you do if you work with him.”

 _Translation: I know you’re an assassin._ “Did that bother you?”

“Sometimes. It was hard to figure out how someone so…” She gestured vaguely, inviting Natasha to substitute her own adjectives. “Could casually kill people in cold blood—“

“Never casually.”

Morse inclined her head, accepting the correction. “Could kill people in cold blood without any apparent qualms. But I was a field agent too, Agent Romanoff. I’m pragmatic enough to know that the line between what I did, and what he does, is not that wide.” She glanced down at Natasha’s untouched tea.

“Do you miss it?”

Morse drank from her own mug and looked at her steadily over the rim, not answering. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally she said, “I don’t want to keep you from your work.” She glanced at the papers again. “You can stay here as long as you’re gone by dawn. I don’t keep bottled water in the house, so you’ll have to trust that I haven’t poisoned either the soap or the water from the tap.”

Natasha smiled faintly, and let Morse take the full mug from her. Morse promptly dumped it into hers, and looked at Natasha as if to say, _I tolerate your paranoia, but it’s silly_.

“Thank you for the sanctuary.”

Morse shrugged. It seemed her default gesture. “I would appreciate if S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t make a habit of treating my house like a safe house.”

“Understood.”

Morse tightened her blue and white kimono around her, and looked at Natasha speculatively. “You asked if I missed it.”

Natasha nodded.

“Do _you_ miss whatever you did before?”

Natasha kept her face blank as memories surged. She remembered her bedtime ritual of trying to find the position that aggravated the fewest bruises and wounds— some of them from training exercises or, later, missions, but just as many from punishments for doing those things unsatisfactorily. The perpetual chill of the rooms never warm enough, the ever-present edge of hunger… the feeling of always being under someone else’s will, no matter how horrible the things they made her do. The the feeling of rough wood under her knees in Amsterdam, scraping her fingers over it because the splinters were the only thing that stayed constant as her world collapsed around her. Waking up one morning and realizing that she was still alive, and she was sane and _free_ enough to appreciate it, as the sun came through the clouds of dust under the rotting roof… only to have the weight of twelve years of torture smother her as she remembered what they’d made her do. And remembered that the others were still inside. The six years that had followed, desperately pitting herself against the Red Room with no real hope of success, _willingly_ doing things just as awful as they’d made her done. The fear that the monsters in her head would get the better of her, one day soon— the fear that had made her envy Clint’s calm and self-assurance, and want some of that for herself badly enough to come in.

“No. I don’t.” She knew that if Morse had ever asked Clint the same question, he would have said no. She didn’t know much about his mercenary years, but she knew those years contributed to the debt he thought he carried. Were the two of them so lethally effective as a strike team because neither had ever done anything better?

Morse returned to the living room. Natasha spread the papers out on the table and photographed some with her phone for HQ. They were mostly financial documents. The money trails all added up. The man even kept detailed records of his visits with prostitutes and how much he spent on them.

“Shit,” she muttered. She gathered the papers up. Morse looked up as she passed, then went back to her laptop. Natasha shut herself in the bathroom and turned on the sink. Then she tapped her earpiece. “I didn’t see anything besides financials in the office. I carried some away with me. There’s nothing here about the study. He looks clean.”

When Coulson's voice came back, he sounded strained. “I sent S.H.I.E.L.D. the contents of the research group's hard drives, but it’ll take days to go through them all.”

“What now?”

Pause. “Are you in a safe place?”

“It’s safe until dawn.”

“Stay there. I’ll get back to you soon.”

Natasha washed her hands, cupped them under the tap, and drank until she wasn't thirsty. Then she went back to the living room.

“I’m getting the impression you don’t trust me, Agent Romanoff,” Morse commented, not looking up from her work.

“I don’t know you.”

Morse smiled. “I don’t have any clothes that would fit you, but my sister left some here last time she visited. She’s about your size.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Morse looked up and studied her. “I don’t mind helping out a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who needs it. I enjoyed my time with the agency.”

Natasha wasn’t sure how far she believed that answer. She wouldn’t have gotten Morse’s attention in the dark living room if she hadn’t known the other woman was still trusted by S.H.I.E.L.D., but after all the mistakes she’d made today, she could rely on that trust too much. “Can I use your TV?”

Morse tilted her head towards the den. “Help yourself.”

Natasha flipped on the TV and searched for a local channel, but all that was playing was a soap opera with a woman wailing about her poodle's paternity test. She checked the national news. Nothing there either. She checked the dressing on her side and put on the clothes Morse brought her. She set an alarm on her phone to go off an hour before dawn, and put her feet up to doze. Morse was stealthy, but Natasha would hear her coming.

Coulson’s voice came in her ear about thirty-five minutes later. “The man in Anacostia is going downhill rapidly. I’ve pulled in extra analysts, but they can't search the whole database in time.”

She thought about that for a moment. Then another moment. “I need McCormack’s schedule for today, some clean clothes, and a box of hair dye.”

“Do you know where the Bethesda safe house is?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be waiting for you there in two hours. McCormack may not follow his schedule,” he warned.

“I know.” She clicked off and found Morse. “Thank you for your… hospitality. I’m going now. Don't watch which way.”

“Fine by me.” Morse held out a light brown handbag and a tightly knit hat. “These will help.”

Natasha took them. “Thank you. Can I take some of your bandages?”

“Go ahead.”

Under pretext of raiding the medical kit, Natasha checked the bag and the hat for trackers or bugs. Satisfied that they were clean, she put the bloodstained papers and the bandages in her bag. Then she opened the bathroom window and boosted herself out.

Traffic was again sparse. By dawn she was at the safe house, satisfied that no one was watching it or her. Waiting for her on the table was a printout of McCormack’s schedule, apparently taken from someone’s BlackBerry; black, brown, and blonde hair dye; and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Draped over the chair were several selections of clothing, from grungy to very nice. Shoes to go with were under the chair.

She showered and dyed her hair brown. She replaced the large dressing with skin-colored glue over the shallow parts, and a smaller bandage over the stitches. A large bandage would attract too much attention.

Coulson’s thoroughness extended to different underwear with the different clothes. Again a little disconcerting, but mostly appreciated. She picked through it all, assembled the look she wanted, and left what Morse had lent her in a neat pile. She studied the schedule again, and tapped her earpiece. “I’m going to intercept McCormack and get him to talk. I’ll leave the channel open.”

“HQ still hasn’t found any answers, but the financials you found could be enough to take him down.”

“They looked fine to me.”

“They don’t match the information he’s given to other powerful people. They might not be pleased to know he’s been swindling them in their joint ventures.”

“Then I’ll leave him for you when I’m done with him. Does he know his office is compromised?”

“No. He’s been holed up there for most of the night.” Pause. “I’m heading to the D.C. office to coordinate things from there. We’ll be ready to move as soon as you have a location.”

She felt naked without any weapons. The morning rush was just starting; she stopped off for some supplies, then blended in with all the cranky commuters going downtown, and made her way to McCormack’s offices, in sight of the Capitol. The receptionist buzzed her in, but then looked at her blankly.

“Hi, I’m here with a delivery for Mr. McCormack, from Mrs. Jones.”

The receptionist’s expression became a very different kind of blank. “Is he expecting you?”

“No. Mrs. Jones sent me as a surprise. She said it was part of his... arrangement. He, um, he indicated that this time of morning was usually a good one?”

“I’ll see if he’s free.” She reached for the phone.

“I can wait,” Natasha added.

The receptionist called up. “Mr. McCormack, you have a visitor from Mrs. Jones—“ _What’s your name?_ she mouthed.

“Betsy.”

“— Betsy.” Pause. “She said she could wait.” Pause. “Yes, sir.”

The security guard sitting discreetly at another desk, who’d ignored her as soon as she’d said where she was from, eyed her again.

“He said you can go up in five minutes.” The receptionist went back to her work, frowning at the computer.

Natasha recognized the problem from previous brief stints as an office worker. “Oh, um, you need to initialize the database first. It’s empty, but it still has the settings from the previous records.”

The receptionist looked up in surprise.

“Sorry. I wasn’t staring. I just happened to see.”

But the receptionist didn’t look upset. “Can you walk me through it?”

“Sure.” Natasha leaned over the desk and fixed the problem in about ten seconds.

“How did you know that?”

“I took a class in database management last semester, and we used that software package. I’m going for my masters in non-profit business management.”

The receptionist betrayed more surprise. “So, this is, uh…” She gestured vaguely to Natasha.

“Putting myself through school, yeah.”

“… oh.” She flushed pink. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”

Natasha shrugged. “It’s a job.”

The receptionist sent her up when the five minutes were up. She locked her earpiece on in the elevator, and double-checked that it was hidden. Then she knocked on the oak-paneled door, more elaborately carved than any of the wood-laminate doors on the hallway, that had to be McCormack’s.

“Come in!” He looked up from behind a stack of papers. “I didn’t ask for an appointment today.”

“Mrs. Jones sent me.” She let her voice drop into a bit of a purr. “She heard what happened last night, and thought you could use some… comfort.”

McCormack frowned. “How’d she hear?”

“One of the girls’ brothers is a detective.”

“Oh. Well, that was thoughtful of her.”

She’d guessed, from McCormack’s use of “Mrs. Jones”’s first name in his records and the fact that he gave her occasional gifts, that they had a longstanding relationship; she’d counted on that to explain the impromptu visit.

“Is this a good time?” She started unbuttoning her jacket.

McCormack’s eyes followed her movement. “Uh, yes. Yes it is. Have you, uh…” He stood. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“No.” She smiled prettily, and tugged off her jacket. “But I know what you like.”

Even unarmed, it would be easy to restrain McCormack and torture him until he told her something. But torture could take a long time, even for her, and wasn’t always reliable. McCormack was a powerful man, in his own office; he would expect that someone would come along and rescue him before long. He’d count on being able to hold out. But now his guard was down, and she could see the stress marks around his eyes and mouth— he was practically begging someone to make it better for him. This was easier.

It amazed her and prompted her contempt, how the lips of even the most powerful and discreet men loosened if you got them half-naked with a pretty woman. She led the “conversation” around to the _terrible_ thing that had happened to him, and how lucky it was he hadn’t been hurt. He mentioned something about how it could have been worse, then broke off with a groan; then he _actually said_ it was lucky he had all his important papers somewhere else. He didn’t say where, but he gave away enough that there was only one place that fit the description. He even made a grandiose allusion to the kinds of things he kept there, out of the way of any inconvenient inspectors.

Maybe she wasn’t giving him enough credit. Maybe the fright from, as he thought, nearly being killed had thrown off his equilibrium. It didn’t matter to her either way.

“Oh. _Oh._ How come...” He gasped. “You’ve never been here before?”

She smiled slowly. “I’m new.”

“Tell her…” He groaned. “Tell her to send you back. Next time—!”

“A team is on its way to the storage unit.” She barely heard Coulson’s voice in her ear. “Another is on its way to get McCormack.”

She wouldn't get anything else coherent out of him, but he might try to run as soon as he knew someone was there to question him. He was still sprawled on his back, basking in the afterglow with a silly grin on his face; she covered his mouth with one hand and handcuffed his wrists with the other. She gagged him before he could scream, then tied his jaw shut. His body arched up as he grunted frantically, trying to kick her, but his pants were still around his ankles, and all she had to do was step on them to keep him down. She knelt across his legs, tied the handcuffs to the leg of the desk, and tied his ankles together.

Back in the lobby, the guard looked her over suspiciously. Did these sessions usually last longer? Then he mimed pulling a jacket together, and his suspicion faded into badly-hidden contempt. She looked down, blushed, and fastened the button of her blouse that she’d “forgotten.”

“Mr. McCormack asked for a few minutes alone,” she told the receptionist, allowing herself a bit of a smirk. The receptionist’s expression changed to one of long-suffering. She nodded. Then Natasha was out of the building and clear.

Coulson kept her updated about the progress of the two teams. By the time she joined him in the ready room at HQ, they had McCormack and his documents. A young analyst passed her on his way out and turned bright red. She looked after him. “What’s his problem?”

Coulson made a non-committal noise. The screen said he was connected to the hospital in Anacostia. She looked through the files from the hard drive Team One had retrieved from the storage unit. The original research logs from the study were here. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been right about the dependency, and they’d been right that McCormack knew about it.

The young analyst wasn’t the only one looking at her oddly. “Were they all on the line?” she asked when Coulson was done.

“No. I cut the broadcast when it became clear what your strategy was. I was the only one listening.”

She frowned. “Seems like an unnecessary risk on your part.”

“The connection was clear, we were recording, and you were both speaking English. It didn’t need a team to listen. And they were not as professional as they should have been.”

Her lips twitched. “Must’ve been awkward for you, Coulson.”

“It was a little awkward,” he agreed after a minute. He looked her over. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you need any, um, aftercare?”

“Aftercare? We didn’t break out the velvet floggers, Coulson.”

She watched him for any signs of embarrassment, ready with a joke about Bangalore and Agent Malcolm, but he just said, “I know you didn’t. I meant of the medical variety.”

“You’re worse than Barton,” she muttered.

His gaze became intent. “I don’t recall you and he working a mission where you had sex with a mark.”

“Frankfurt. He was concerned about the... possibilities.”

“Ah.” But she knew he hadn’t forgotten that she hadn’t answered. “Medical care. Do you need any.”

“The morning-after pill couldn’t hurt. But I can get it myself.”

His eyebrows went up, just a little. “You didn’t—“

“We did.” And she’d thrown the used condom out several blocks away, so McCormack's security couldn't get her DNA off of it. And given her own longstanding precautions to prevent pregnancy-- but sometimes paranoia was necessary. “I’m just being careful.”

She thought she remembered the Red Room giving her pills to make her cramp and bleed profusely, a couple months after a mission where she'd fucked a mark... but she wasn't sure it was true. There were a lot of things she thought she remembered. She thought They'd given her an IUD, but she hadn't had one when Bela had scanned her in Debrecen. And she thought They'd ordered one of the other girls to get pregnant by her mark, so They could eventually use the child as a hostage against its father; that would've meant they hadn't all been sterilized. But she didn’t know if _she_ were fertile, or if the Red Room had changed that too, after the memories that maybe had never happened.

She didn’t really care. “And a pregnancy test in a month.”

Coulson didn’t blink at the levels of her caution. “I'll have Medical send the pill up before you leave. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Sorry about the analyst. He’s not really mature enough to be working off the back bench.”

“I noticed.”

“He didn’t actually hear anything.”

She shrugged, and started looking around for any food unwisely left unguarded. She was ravenous. “I was faking it all anyway.”

“I thought you would.”

She spun back. “You developed an opinion on the matter?” Her hand drifted towards her most accessible knife.

“No! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

She eyed him.

“You’re a private person, Natasha. I didn’t think you’d share that with a mark.”

He had a point. She relaxed, and cut him some slack. “Yeah.” She usually faked her pleasure and enthusiasm, ever since she’d escaped the Red Room.

She also remembered, hazily, occasional snatches that made her think there’d been exceptions— that she’d had sex with someone _not_ out of obligation, and had enjoyed it. Not being able to remember was normal… but the feeling that she’d _hidden_ the memory, rather than having it taken from her, wasn’t. The only other memories that felt like that involved her time before the Red Room.

She frowned. “Where'd they put the vending machines that used to be on the landing?”

“Here.” Something crinkled and _swish_ ed through the air behind her— she reached up and caught the candy bar out of the air. She turned around and looked at Coulson.

“Agent Barton is a bad influence,” he said, unrepentant.

She ate the candy bar, then went to the cafeteria for some real food and to Medical for her pill. When she came back, the one young analyst was back in the room. He looked at her, went red again, and looked pointedly at the floor.

She stepped forward until he had to look up. “Grow. _Up_.”

He looked like S.H.I.E.L.D. had been using him in an unfortunate tomato-human hybrid experiment. “Ma’am,” he squeaked.

She pointedly turned her back on him. “Do you still need me?”

“No. The patient is beginning to respond to treatment. They think he'll make it. We’re done here.”

She rode to the airstrip with him. They got stuck in D.C. traffic. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked, when they missed the second cycle of the light.

“It was just _sex_ , Coulson.”

“One of the first things you ever told me was that you didn’t want to kill children or have sex with marks.” His voice was gentle. “You said that before you knew anything about us, or whether we would hire you. I want to know that you’re all right. We’d be having this same conversation if you’d had to kill a child.”

 _Would we really?_ She couldn’t imagine that one going so smoothly. “I’m fine. Stop treating me like a delicate flower.”

“I’m not treating you like a delicate flower. I’m treating you like someone who’s entitled to have boundaries.”

 _Boundaries_. First Clint, then Coulson. “Yeah, I’ve heard of those.”

He didn’t take the bait. “Will you let me know if you stop being fine?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

He nodded, as if he knew that that honesty was a sign of respect, and was also the best he was going to get.

Until it wasn’t. “It... makes a difference, having a choice,” she said, two stoplights later. “If you’d put me on a mission like that, I would have said no. I'm not going to make a habit out of it.” And not all choices were equal. A nominal choice driven by the need for money was one thing. A free choice driven by wanting to make sure something came out all right-- by knowing the horror of having someone else break down your body for their ends-- that was different.

Wanting to make sure someone she'd never _met_ came out all right. Wasn't that a luxury.

But she wouldn't go there with Coulson. S.H.I.E.L.D. agent though he was, his experiences with the very worst the world had to offer had been through other people’s eyes, not his own.

“I wouldn’t put you on a mission like that. It’s a condition of your employment.”

“That’s not actually in my file.”

He made a non-committal noise. Was there a different file she hadn’t seen? “It doesn’t have to be. I sign off on all your assignments if anyone else requests you.”

“Have you turned down requests like that?” She didn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He looked at her like she’d grown a second head. “It’s a condition of your _employment_ , Natasha. I agreed to it before we left Klaipeda. You're not lacking in effectiveness using _only_ the rest of your very extensive arsenal.”

“Mmm.”

His voice went gentle in the way she hated, because it usually meant he’d seen something she didn’t want him to see. Clint had good eyesight, but Coulson had good… emotion-radar, or something. It was annoying. Bad enough that she had _Feelings_ ; she didn’t need to alert the world to them. “There’s not always a catch.”

She didn’t let her annoyance at his perceptiveness show, or that his indignation on her behalf was actually kind of touching. _Losing it, Romanoff_. “Were the requesting agents upset?”

He shrugged. “Never for very long.”

She eyed him, wondering what that implied.

His voice became deadly dry. “Very few of them ever considered, apparently, that if _I_ signed off on the request, you still could and might well refuse, in accordance with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s policies.”

She watched him for a moment. He was a very pragmatic man when he needed to be, and an excellent S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, able to make hard decisions. Yet here he was, getting angry at the idea that other agents might be taken in by her reputation and ask her to do things she didn’t really want to do. She smiled at him.

He saw the expression and looked at her with a little wariness. After a minute, he smiled back.

A few more stoplights slid by. “It doesn’t seem weird to you, that I don’t care about killing people but I won’t have sex with them?”

“Natasha, out of the weird things I've seen, that one doesn't even make the radar.”

 _We need you to steal a tortoise._ She shrugged. “Fair enough.”

*

_Ugh._

A long stint scrambling for intel after the kidnapping of a famous weapons designer had been followed by another long stint investigating 'weather anomalies' in the Madagascar jungle. It had stormed every night, and insects and small mammals had fallen out of the leaking roof, onto her face, every night. The hot shower eased her tired muscles, but if one more thing stood between her and a long sleep under a waterproof roof--

Her phone buzzed— but it was her private phone. “Hello.”

“Hey, Tasha.”

He sounded relaxed, _happy._ “What is it?”

“I, uh... the docs just told me that the way my shoulder's healing, they think I'll be shooting again.”

She smiled, startled herself by the force of her happiness, then remembered that he couldn’t see her. “Good.”

“So, uh… I just, uh, wanted you to know.”

“Thanks.”

“Next time you’re in the city, assuming they don’t send me anywhere else, want to have a celebratory drink? If you feel like being frivolous.”

“Next time I’m in the city,” she promised. It had been way too long since she'd seen him, who was ostensibly her field partner.

“Okay.” Pause. “What’s, uh, going on in your life?”

She grabbed her stuff and slipped out of the locker room. “Shooting people. Stealing things. The usual. Yours?”

“Going over old files and being bored.”

“You’ll miss it when someone’s trying to blow you up.”

“Yeah, probably. I did get to go out last week. Backup for Coulson. Pretending to be his boyfriend.”

She laughed. “I bet that was fun.”

“The only thing _fun_ about it was that it was shorter than Naperville.” Pause. “And watching him twitch when I called him ‘darling.’” Pause. “You’re a better kisser than he is. He’s not bad, though.”

“I really needed to know that.”

They hung up. She broke into the secured Personnel files and pulled up Clint's registered local address. No telling whether he actually lived there, but it was a start. Then she sent a record of her break-in to IT, because agents' home addresses was sensitive information that ought to be better protected.

She headed for Bed Stuy. If he wasn't home, she could wait. She knocked— not, it was true, _loudly_ — and waited for a response. Nothing. She listened at the crack in the door. It was quiet inside.

It was disturbingly easy to get the door open. She eased it open slowly to prevent any sudden changes in pressure. She listened for an alarm as she slipped inside, but apparently Clint’s apartment was as ill-defended as it looked.

The short hallway led to a tiny galley kitchen to the left, a living room straight ahead, and a bedroom ahead to the right. The closed door before the bedroom had to be the bathroom. A light was on, and the shower was running.

And that was Clint singing, wasn’t it.

She smiled a little evilly, and circled the living room. It was surprisingly messy compared to the cabin. The mail was scattered over the floor like it had fallen off a stack on the battered coffee table. The pile of library books, most having to do with history, _was_ intact, if precarious. The trash and recycling were both near to overflowing. There was a basket of laundry against the far wall, and a discarded shirt on the back of the armchair.

She settled down on the old, worn, deceptively comfortable couch and put her feet up on the milk crate that seemed to be there for that purpose. It wasn't long before the singing and the water stopped. She heard a door open-- two ways into the bathroom, then. Clint was moving around in the next room. She didn't move a muscle. If she'd been wearing perfume, he probably would have already caught her.

He came through the door, towel held loosely around his waist-- and went stone-still.

She kept her hands in plain sight.

“Tasha. How nice of you to stop by. And break into my apartment.”

“Anything for a friend.” She studied him. There were new pain lines around his mouth, and his upper lip was scruffy, like he couldn’t reach it shaving. He was paler, and his hair was longer. He was holding his right arm a little stiffly.

“‘Cause nothing says ‘we’re friends’ like a little B&E.” He disappeared back into his bedroom and came out a moment later in a worn pair of sweatpants. He rubbed the towel over his head, one-handed. “How’re you?”

She shrugged. “Fine.”

He sat down in the chair, legs stretched out in front of him. “You couldn’t’ve mentioned you were already _in_ town?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

It was his turn to shrug. “I nearly didn’t bother with the towel.”

“... _Anyway._ You really live in Bed Stuy with no security system?”

“No one here knows who I am and no one out there knows where I live.”

“Enough people know that _I_ found out. Robinson could’ve found you and sent someone to kill you.”

“He could’ve _tried_.”

“It—“

“I missed you too, Nat, but you don’t need to fuss.”

She opened her mouth to retort indignantly. “I’m not fussing,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Uh-huh.” He looked her over. “Not bleeding from anywhere that I can see, you must be having a good day.”

“I am having a good day. I got to break into an unsuspecting victim’s apartment. That always cheers me right up.”

He rolled his eyes. “So. Drink?”

“Is that a good idea?” She respected him too much to dance around this and try to manipulate him into any divulgence of information.

He frowned. “What’d’you mean? I’m not on painkillers any more.”

She nodded to the number of empty beer bottles in the recycling.

He looked at them. “What about them?”

She looked at him.

His lips twitched when he got it. “Talked to Coulson, huh?”

“Mmm.”

“Don't worry. I got over that. I just haven't taken the recycling out in weeks.”

“Okay.”

“But, uh... thanks.”

“Happy to invade your personal space and ask intrusive questions any time you want.”

Behind him, the window unit clicked on. Natasha frowned. It wasn't warm in the room.

Clint rolled his eyes, got up, and turned it off. “Where you wanna go? I know a good dive. With food.”

“'Good dive' is a contradiction.”

“It excels in all its dive-like qualities. It’s the platonic ideal of dives.”

“Fine, whatever. Put more clothes on.”

“Picky, picky,” he muttered as he headed to his bedroom.

*

The bathroom floor was sticky with a fluid she didn't want to identify. That there was actually soap was so unusual she sniffed it first to make sure it really was... soap.

She wiped her hands on her pants and came out just in time to see some tall bald guy reach for the waitress’s ass. Clint shoved him, hard, and his reach went wide. Then Clint stepped in between him and her.

“What the hell, moron?!” The bald guy stepped closer to Clint, who didn’t move. The bald guy was bigger, but Clint was solid muscle, even after weeks of recovery, and it showed.

“Keep your hands off her. She’s not interested.”

The bald guy sneered. “Who cares? She’s there.”

Clint shrugged. “Just ‘cause the only way you could ever touch a woman is if you surprised her, don’t mean you get to.”

The bald guy snarled. “You fucking fag, I’m gonna punch your teeth out.” Behind him, three other dudes, nearly as tall, stood up.

“Gentlemen,” Clint said. “And you four. Let’s take this outside.” He stepped back. He'd positioned all four of them with their backs to Natasha. The waitress had retreated behind the bar. Clint turned towards the door.

Big Bald took the bait and lunged. Natasha launched off of the nearest chair, slammed into his back, and got her arm across his neck. He gasped, flailing wildly in shock. She drove one heel deep into his groin. He groaned and fell to his knees. She slid off his back to the ground, and flipped him so his head slammed into the chair.

Clint had another down, but the other two had flanked him, and he was going to re-hurt his shoulder if he had someone on his weak side like that. That empty beer bottle would end the fight fast, but S.H.I.E.L.D. would be upset if she hit anyone hard enough to involve the police. So she came up behind the guy on Clint's right, tapped him on the shoulder, and sucker-punched him when he turned around. A blow to the ribs forced him back, blocking his poor attempt at a counterstrike. She hit him again. He was up against the wall. A kick took him down.

Clint’s left connected with the last guy with a _slap_. The waitress was watching with ill-concealed satisfaction. She seemed reassured that they hadn't destroyed any furniture. The bartender didn’t even have his phone out. Natasha stood back, ready to jump in if the guy went for Clint’s right, but even with one good arm Clint was more than a match for him. They weren't trained— just drunk, entitled, and angry. Never a good way to get into a bar fight with two assassins.

There really wasn't _any_ good way to get into a bar fight with two assassins.

Clint hit the guy again, and he went down and stayed down. Clint looked around. “You want us to get ‘em out?”

“Nah, I’ll take care of ‘em,” the bartender said.

“Sorry about the mess.” Clint dropped a couple of bills on the table, and they left.

She’d only gotten a couple mouthfuls of her drink. She sighed, loudly enough to be heard, as they walked down the street. He looked sideways at her, and the shadow at the corner of his mouth deepened.

“Guess that’s another bar I can never go back to,” he said.

She shrugged. “I once got thrown out of a bar for strangling a man to death with his own necktie. This is pretty mundane in comparison.”

“Was he a mark?”

“No. I didn’t like the way he was coming on to me.” He’d made it clear that he didn’t care what she wanted as long as he could get her drunk and in his hotel room. He never would have succeeded, but not every woman was her, and the world was better off without a waste of oxygen like that.

“There _wasn’t_ any mess,” she added. “Why’d you leave the money?”

“Han shot first.”

“You said you only watched that movie because Coulson made you. You seem to know it very well.”

“You must _also_ know it pretty good to know what I'm talking about.”

“I just have fantastic recall,” she said primly. His answering smirk said she was full of shit, but he wasn’t going to call her on it.

“You wanna find another place? I owe you a drink, you had to leave your last one.”

“Yes, you do. Maybe a place where we don’t have to beat the shit out of some clowns when we’ve been there five minutes?”

His smile made her a little wary. “I know a place.”

She looked around when they were inside. Everyone was sporting a bow tie, enormous glasses, suspenders, or all three. “What _is_ this? A costume party?”

His grin widened. “Welcome to Williamsburg.”

They stayed for a couple hours. He replaced her drink, and then bought her another-- “For the birthday you had.” She wasn't used to the idea of celebrating a birthday, but she didn't protest. Then Clint decided he was ravenous, and they got dinner. The menu used the word “artisanal” five times in two paragraphs. She counted.

She frowned at her phone when they left. “There's a S.H.I.E.L.D. alert. They’ve shut down the subway tunnels under the river.”

“What, all of 'em?”

“Yeah.”

“Do they need us?”

She shook her head. “It’s just a be-advised. But they’ve called in R&D… and Linguistics?”

“Makes you think something old and awful came crawling out of the deep tunnels.”

“Not my job, not my problem.”

“You wanna crash with me? The busses will be terrible if all the lines are down.”

She didn’t have to be anywhere early. “Sure. Thanks.”

Their phones chimed. His eyebrows went up when he dug his out and read the message. “‘Unknown life-form present in subway tunnels.’”

They looked at each other.

“‘All agents shelter in place, avoid crossing the East River by… _any means of transportation?_ ’”

“Damn it, Barton, you jinxed us.”

“‘Avoid the subways. Be alert for further updates.’”

“Well,” she said. “This’ll be a fun night.”

He looked at the nearest subway station, and hesitated. “All the lines that cross the East River here, they pretty much run through the same area between Fort Greene and Park Slope. Something does come out, we could hold it there better than anywhere else.”

She pictured the area in her head: the lines might cross, but the stations themselves were scattered. _Better_ did not mean _well_. Clint was being idealistic and protective of civilians... but he wasn't wrong. “Yeah.”

Back at his apartment, Clint stuffed a disassembled sniper rifle and a lot of ammo in a duffel. She hadn't dressed for a war zone; he gave her some extra ammo. Inconspicuously armed to the teeth, they headed towards the convergence of the subway lines. They did recon, then picked a building. She climbed the fire escapes; Clint tailgated someone in. She opened the roof door for him. They climbed to the top of the water tower. She gave him a hand when he needed it, but over such a short distance, he managed well using only one arm. On top of the tower, a life-sized figurine of Christ doubled as a lightning rod. It was big enough that she and Clint could sit against it and not be silhouetted, but small enough that they could sit shoulder-to-shoulder and still see fairly well around them.

It was... nice to be sitting with Clint on a stakeout again. Things were as they should be.

“You hear about Stark?” he asked.

She nodded. “They lent me to the D.O.D. to analyze some leads. They're like headless chickens over there.”

“Coulson's been working long hours on it. They had me put out some feelers, but my old group, what's left of 'em, doesn't know anything.”

“Not surprising. They think it was a local group.”

“Mm. Seems a bit too clean for that.” He shrugged.

Her S.H.I.E.L.D. phone rang. “Romanoff.”

“Please tell me you’re in Manhattan.” It was Sitwell.

“I’m in Brooklyn. If you want me at the river, I can get there from this side.”

“Uh, no. The area of concern is on this side, and there’s a section we think is fairly dangerous— What are you doing in Brooklyn?”

“Watching the subway tunnels to make sure nothing comes out.”

“Oh. Good. Stay there.”

“What’s going on?”

“There’s something moving deep in the tunnels. Judging by the infrared, it’s too big to be a person. We have Engineering pulling audio and Linguistics analyzing it, and they say it sounds like something trying to make contact.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Aliens in the New York subway,” she said finally.

“Apparently. I have to go. Stay where you are but be ready to move. We may send a helicopter for you.” He hung up, leaving her wishing she’d asked what these things looked like rather than wasting words being incredulous.

She relayed his news to Clint. He looked as thrilled as she felt. “Did he say how many other agents were in Brooklyn? We could use some backup if anything comes out in force.”

“No— but…” She called HQ back.

It was many rings before anyone answered. “This is Agent Romanoff. I need a list of all the agents who live in the city who aren’t at the scene, and their contact info.”

“We’re busy, Agent Romanoff—“

“I’m not. I’m sitting on top of a water tower in case something crawls out of the tunnels. Do you know who else could do that?”

Pause. “We’ll get it to you.”

“It’s going to take forever to call them all,” she muttered as she waited.

“Phone tree,” Clint said.

“What?”

“Phone tree. You call someone, give them two other names to call. They each call two others. Or text them. And so on.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

He didn't answer.

H.Q. sent the list. She'd expected it to be long, and it was. She used Clint's phone tree thing, and it was still a logistical hassle, but finally they had agents covering a total of ten subway stations in a tight radius around the bridge, and a plan for responding to any sign of incursion.

“They’re gonna promote you if you keep doing that,” Clint said when she was done.

“Doing what?”

“Leading.”

She rolled her eyes. “Rah, rah, go team.”

“It was our-- my foster dad.” He startled her after ten minutes of silence. “A Vietnam vet. Coordinated stuff for all the vets across the city.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” His voice was warmer than she'd ever heard it, during the infrequent times he talked about his childhood. “He was a good guy. He and his wife both. They were my favorites.”

“How long were you with them?” she prompted, when he didn’t say anything more. It wasn’t manipulation if she asked open questions. She wouldn’t fool anyone by feigning disinterest.

“Nine months was all. Dale and Eliza. He needed a wheelchair most of the time, so he stayed home, we saw him more. He cooked, they let us eat as much as we wanted. Took us to the library. Played catch when he could. Never hit us. Never even... shouted at us.”

“They had a little boy, few years younger than me,” he continued. The beer must've loosened his tongue. “Cute kid. Shared his toys with us. We went to school with him as long as we lived there. He got teased bad ‘cause of his parents— there weren’t many mixed-race couples in Des Moines in the ‘80s. They said some ugly things about his mom especially. Barney and me cornered 'em one afternoon and beat the snot out of ‘em. Seemed the least we could do, get them to back off of Mike.”

“Did it work?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Had to lie to Eliza and Dale about where we got the bruises, but yeah, it worked.” He sighed. “We, uh…”

She waited.

“We hoped real hard they'd keep us.”

“What happened?”

“Workplace shooting. Some dick-brained bastard came after his ex-wife. Eliza got in the way. Saved the woman, but she got shot four times and died. Dale tried to keep us, but he just, it was too much for him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” He sounded startled.

“How many... others did you have?”

He didn't answer. She watched the subway exit on her side. Nothing unusual. Not by Brooklyn standards.

“Four.” It sounded like the words were being dragged out of him. He paused for a long time. “Pretty Good, Too Busies, Daily Switchers, and Assholes May They Burn In Hell.”

“I... hope that's not chronological.”

“Nah.”

“Who was the Pretty Good?” she asked after a while.

“Annette. She worked weird hours, I didn't always see her. Money was tight, but she took care of me, kept me clothed, fed. Baked me cookies.” He snorted again. “Hell, she checked my homework. But I got into too much trouble. They moved me.”

“What about the Too Busies?”

“They knew what they were doing. They'd been fostering for a while. But they had another kid and she needed a _lot_ of attention. Someone'd hurt her bad. I kinda fell through the cracks. Not really their fault... at least it was warm, dry, and safe. And... food.”

“And the Daily Switchers?” She had no intention of asking about the fourth couple.

“They believed in 'strict discipline to grow a child.'” His words dripped contempt.

She frowned, translated the colloquialism, and wanted to kick herself.

“And they liked the money they got for me, which, it's not a _lot_. You can't make money off your kids unless you neglect them. So they did.”

“We were, uh, together after that, again.” His voice had dropped enough that she had trouble hearing him. “Our last chance. Only ones who would take us. They took a lot of tough kids.”

“Barney-- finally... he beat the man so bad he barely got off without charges. Sent us both to group homes. His was fucking awful. And he'd known it was gonna be.”

She hesitated.

_The closer you let him, the more it will hurt after the next Brno._

_… I know._ She covered his hand with hers.

He made a startled, sarcastic noise, like he were thinking, _Why would you care?_ It hurt to hear, and she’d been conditioned to withstand extreme pain. But he left his hand where it was.

“Had a lot of time to think, these last months,” he said. “Where I'd come from... where I'm going.”

The thought of the Red Room rolling over in its grave pleased her as she fumbled with his hand in the dark. Any of her roles could have done this smoothly, but she had no experience here. She freed her fingers, found his pressure points with her thumb, and started to rub, deep pressure. She noticed that the bow calluses were fading from his hand. She felt him relax and lean more solidly against the water tower.

 _Look at you. This is pathetic. You’ve gone soft. You’re_ rotting.

_No. I’ll do whatever the hell I want. Wherever and whenever the hell I want to do it. Even if it’s holding Goddamned hands with my partner on top of a water tower._

She glanced away from the station to give her eyes a break. She traced the patterns, familiar and not, of the few stars visible amid the light pollution. One of the snatches of memory she had left from before the Red Room was of sitting on a big man's shoulders as he named the stars in the winter sky... No point in dwelling on it. She might as well have someone else's memories in her head, for all that her life bore any relation to that little girl.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“We missed our anniversary.”

“What are you talking about, Barton?”

“October. When we were commissioned.”

“ _Anniversary_?”

“Yep.”

“You are the soppiest man I’ve ever _met_ .” He was supposed to be an _assassin_ , for God's sake.“Was I supposed to get you something? A card? Flowers? A giant stuffed animal? A flock of helium balloons? A singing telegram? Or a skywriter, ‘Happy anniversary let’s go kill more people’?”

He was laughing. It was good to hear. “We should’ve gotten a beer.”

“Of the two bars we’ve been in tonight, one was full of assholes, and the other was full of weirdos in suspenders. Our record for going out for a drink isn’t good.”

Both their phones lit up at the same time. _All clear. Stand down. Subways neutralized._

He was already calling into H.Q. They were probably flooded with calls, but finally he reached someone. “Rats,” he reported, hanging up.

“Rats?”

“An enormous super-colony of rats, moving as one. Coming to feed on some fresh bodies.”

 _Fresh bodies?_ “... what do these rats sound like,” she asked slowly, “that Linguistics couldn't identify them?”

They looked at each other.

Carefully, Natasha picked up her feet.

“My offer's still open-- everything going west'll be jammed.”

She yawned. “Okay. Thanks.”

They made it back to Clint's apartment. He checked several primitive but effective anti-intruder devices she hadn't noticed. “Couch, or you c'n have half the bed. _Half_. As in, right or left.”

She smiled. “Couch.” She took off her outer layers, stretched out under the blanket he'd brought her, and slept almost instantly.

She woke up freezing. The window air conditioner was running full-blast. She got up turn it off. The dial was already set to 'off.' She thumped it a few times with the heel of her hand. It kicked into a higher speed. She felt for the cord and followed it to where it disappeared behind the couch.

She set her feet and tried to move the couch. It was massive, and resisted movement. She pushed harder. It _bump_ ed away from the wall far enough for her to see the outlet... and the sign, not in Clint's handwriting: “DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES UNPLUG THIS UNIT.”

She rolled her eyes.

She took the blanket and padded to the doorway of Clint's bedroom. She could have made a fair attempt at killing him before he reacted, if she’d wanted to, though he wasn't slow.

“In or out,” he murmured sleepily after a minute. He pushed the blanket down and rolled over, making room for her. She climbed into the other side of the bed, slid next to him, and pulled the blanket over them both. She burrowed into the warm spot he'd left when he'd moved over.

“You're a heat-seeking missile cleverly disguised as a person,” he muttered.

You could say things in the dark, that you couldn't in the light. He'd shown that, earlier. “I spent twelve years living in a barely-heated concrete block. Blankets only if I'd done well. That was enough.”

She heard him shift. Then he tugged the blanket up even higher, and his hand rested on her shoulder for a moment, so lightly she might have imagined it.

“I don't need your pity.” But she kept the bite out of it.

“And I don’t need Mrs. Szulczewski downstairs’s old _Knitting Weekly_ s, but she keeps giving ‘em to me.”

“I— what? Why?”

“Guess she thinks I knit.”

“You can’t tell her you don’t?”

“Well, I don't want to hurt her feelings. She makes a mean rugelach.”

She snorted.

“I got some in the fridge, you can have it for breakfast if you want.”

“Good _night_ , Barton.”

*

She woke up disoriented. The bright, worn room with its battered, sturdy furniture, and the unshaded window with a surprisingly comprehensive view of the city... those made sense. But the light confused her. “Bright,” she muttered.

Clint shifted behind her, near her. “Sunlight has a way of doing that.” His voice, deep with sleep, sounded amused.

She calculated time of sunrise and when she'd fallen asleep. “Last time I slept was... thirty-six... hours and a hemisphere ago.” Madagascar time should have had her up earlier, not later, but jet lag and fatigue had combined to shut her brain down and let her sleep for nearly seven hours. The lack of panicked rodents on her face had also been helpful.

They got up. As the coffee brewed, Clint took a plastic container out of the fridge and offered her the little cookies inside. She eyed how few were left, how bare his fridge was, and shook her head.

He looked at her like he knew exactly what she was doing, and took another full container of rugelach out of the freezer.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“How many of those do you have?”

He opened the freezer door farther.

“… Barton, you have a problem.”

“I have a lot of problems. A freezer full of cookies ain’t one of 'em.”

“You—“ _You’re never going to eat all of those_ , she almost said. She didn't.

He thawed the second container in the microwave as the coffee brewed. They sat in silence, dunking the cold cookies into the hot coffee. “She doesn’t usually bring me so many,” Clint said with his mouth full. “I’m not usually here for so long. But I told her I’d hurt my shoulder so I couldn’t work with the team—“

“Team?”

“I said I was a coach for the US target shooting team, and a writer on the side.”

She nodded. It was a good cover. It would explain his schedule and his build. “Did she believe you?”

“I been wondering that myself.” He swallowed. “— anyway, she’s been, uh…”

“Mothering you?”

“Bringing me cookies.”

Someone knocked on the door. She checked her gun; Clint pulled one of his own out of the junk drawer and tucked it into the back of his waistband. Then he checked the peephole.

“Oh.” He opened the door. “Uh, hi, Mrs. S.” He made frantic motions behind his back that she interpreted as ‘hide the cookies.’ She stuck them in the dishwasher.

“I wanted to bring these to you while they were fresh out of the oven.” The woman’s voice was lightly accented— from somewhere in eastern Europe, but time had weathered it so much Natasha couldn’t place it closer than that. “I did some baking— oh, you have a lady friend over.”

“Uh. Uh, yeah, this is my friend… my friend.”

Natasha came out of the kitchen. How had the woman known she was there? “I’m Nat. Hi.”

“I’m Mrs. Szulczewski, dear, but you can call me Mrs. S. He does. It’s nice to meet you.”

Natasha shook the offered hand. “Thanks.”

“Clint is such a _lovely_ man, dear. Of course you knew that, but--”

Clint tried to interject something, but she steamrollered over him.

“Last week, he spent an hour hanging my new closet rod for me. I told him not to worry about it, because of his shoulder, but he wouldn’t listen. And then he dangled out the window and fixed the TV antenna for me.”

“Mrs. S—“

“Oh, and then you caught that spider for me last week!”

Natasha listened with growing delight as Mrs. S. enumerated Clint’s virtues.

“Anyway, I don’t want to keep you when you have company. I just wanted to bring you the latest batch. They’re almond.”

“Thanks, Mrs. S.”

Natasha thought she would stay to talk longer, but she hurried away. Clint closed and bolted the door behind her, and pointedly did not look at Natasha. She folded her arms over her chest. “Barton, you old softie.”

“Not like I’m good for much else at the moment,” he muttered.

Her phone rang. “Romanoff.”

“Where are you?” It was Coulson.

“Brooklyn.” She moved towards the door.

“Get back to headquarters. You’re going to Afghanistan. We're ramping up our involvement in the Stark case.”

“On my way.” She hung up and turned to Clint. “I have to go. They’re sending me out of the country. Take care of yourself.”

“You too. Here—“ He pulled another full container of cookies from the freezer. “Take these. Eat ‘em on the plane, or leave them at HQ.”

“Try not to die while I’m gone. And take care of yourself.”

“You said that already.”

“I know.”

“Don't worry. I will. Don't have too much fun without me.”

She snorted.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note:
> 
> I published _Chance_ in two months. It's been three times that long since I updated _Partners_. Understandably, some people have asked why. There are a few reasons this is taking so long:
> 
> 1.) The chapters have gotten longer. My draft for chapter ten is currently at 100K words. When I end up with chapters that overly long, it takes almost as much time to edit them down as it does to write them that length in the first place.
> 
> 2.) As I come up on the Marvel movies, the story's timeline becomes delicate. I have chapters nine and ten and the first chapter of Part Three drafted, because I want to make sure everything works well together.
> 
> 3.) Originally I intended to publish all this shortly after Avengers. But I have demanding responsibilities, and writing and polishing a 1M word story takes a lot of time. It's dragged out to the point that my intended storyline no longer conforms to canon after the Avengers movie. For a while, I found that very discouraging, and I considered giving up occasionally. It's also very frustrating to write a non-canon-compliant story. For example, I had decided to include Bobbi Morse a year ago, but Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. got there first. (There are consolations. _I_ can use the word “mutant” in my story.)
> 
> But it's not the fault of my story, and it's not the fault of my readers, that I couldn't crank the story out before any of the other movies were released. So I'm going to keep going, and I'll mark everything from Part Three on as not Phase Two compliant. Because I still love this story... and I think I can even do some things better than official Marvel canon.


	12. Stark, Snark, Projectile Arc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: this chapter contains on-screen graphic violence, injury, and death; brief gore; vomiting; and implicit biphobia. It also references torture; sexual harassment; attempted rape; murder; and suicide.
> 
> Thanks to my beta readers for all their help.

The large briefing room was about three-quarters full of agents. She slipped into the back row as Sitwell began.

“Most of you know about the Stark case,” he said. “His military convoy was ambushed using some of his own weapons. He disappeared; there was no body. His company and the DoD have both been scrambling, but they haven't gotten very far.  _We_ think a terrorist group called the Ten Rings is responsible, but we don't have much to back that up, and we can't find them.”

He pulled up a map. “S.H.I.E.L.D.'s been operating in a support capacity, but now we're taking a more active role. We'll be establishing our own base outside Kabul. Our job is to find Mr. Stark as soon as possible. Simple. But not easy.”

A woman in the front raised her hand.

“Agent Carter?”

“Is this rescue politically motivated? Or motivated by what Stark's dad did for us?”

Murmurs ran through the room.

“We're going after Stark because if his technology falls into the wrong hands,” Sitwell said, “more than it already has, we'll have a massive destabilization of the global situation.”

But he hadn't necessarily answered Carter.

Natasha raised her hand.

“Agent Romanoff.”

Another, softer murmur. People turned around to look at her. “How do our analysts rate the chances that Stark's still alive?”

“In the complete absence of information, with difficulty,” Sitwell said drily. “But it strains credulity that this was a random attack, and if someone had killed him, they'd probably want the world to know.”

Another hand. “Do we think someone's after his company?”

“Stark's right-hand man, Obadiah Stane, has been with the company longer than Stark has. We think he'll be able to hold things together, at least in the short-term.”

Sitwell went through the mission parameters and then dismissed them. She showered, packed, and slept for a few hours before her plane was leaving. She got to the airstrip early, and came up silently beside Carter.

“Good morning to you, too.”

Natasha had meant to startle her. “It's not morning.”

“Not that good either.”

Natasha tilted her head, acknowledging her point.

“I was a little surprised they put you on this,” Carter said after a minute.

“I'm currently down a partner.”

“Have you heard from Barton?”

“Yes.”

“How is he?”

“Fine.”

Carter gave her a dry look. “I promise you, he and I go far enough back that if you gave me a ten-word answer instead of a one-word answer, he wouldn’t mind.”

She smiled. “He misses shooting. Says he feels better.” She made a show of counting on her fingers. “He'll be okay.”

Carter rolled her eyes.

“Were you in Manhattan last night?”

“No, I was in Queens with my boyfriend. I missed the excitement. You?”

“I was in Brooklyn.”

“Doesn't Barton live in Brooklyn?”

Natasha shrugged. “He's never told me.”

“Ever been to Afghanistan?” Carter asked after a pause.

“I... don't think so.” The most obvious Russian interests in Afghanistan had been gone before she was active, but that wasn't conclusive. “You?”

“Briefly. DoD-wrangling duty.”

“What's it like?”

“Depends on where you are. Near Kabul, not terrible, but it fluctuates a lot. The winters are hellishly cold in some places. At least we're escaping that.”

“Maybe we'll still be there.”

“Are all Russians this cheerful?”

Natasha smiled. Then she dug for her phone. She hadn't seen an update on last night's rat debacle, and she wanted one.

“Romanoff?”

“What?”

“Why do you have a red, white, and blue metallic chicken figurine in your bag?”

Natasha looked down. “... _Damn_ it, Barton!”

Carter laughed until she was holding her sides.

*

On the plane, she went through the files she'd pulled on Stark. Stark was a narcissist who'd lived his entire life in the media spotlight; there were hours of interviews, pages of breathless headlines from magazines of varying degrees of respectability, thousands of words of Congressional testimony transcripts, and even an appallingly edited, lurid “tell-all.” This was in addition to the small hard drive's worth of footage of Stark doing stupid things, in public, while drunk. By the time they landed in Germany, she'd seen Stark's bare ass enough times to make her faintly homicidal.

Eventually, they reached Kabul and made it to the S.H.I.E.L.D. tent city. Natasha staked a claim on the smallest tent she could find, and hoped that her reputation would prevent attempts by anyone else to share it with her. They had her riding along with the sweeps of the ambush site. When she wasn't out there, she went over Forensics' initial reports and studied the local dialects. She would do whatever they wanted her to, that was the deal; but poring over the same square meters of ground that all the organizations ahead of them had already searched didn't play to her strengths.

A heat wave came through during the night. The next evening, Carter flopped down in the patch of shade created by the propped-up flap of Natasha's tent. She looked exhausted, and filthy. And unhappy, which indicated the level of success of her own mission.

“Carter.” Natasha tried not to sound too welcoming.

Carter reached into her bag and handed Natasha a very cold bottle of beer.

Natasha looked at it, then pressed it to her neck. “Where'd you get this?”

Carter smirked obnoxiously. “Surely you don’t expect me to spill my secrets, Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Fine. You can stay.”

“How very generous of you.” She unzipped and tugged off her uniform top.

Natasha looked at her pale shoulders. “You’re gonna burn.” She had long ago stripped down to her own undershirt, but she was sitting inside the tent, and she’d brought sunscreen from New York.

“Small price to pay for being cool.”

“You can sit inside if you want.” Natasha made it sound like a great concession. “I’ll open the back door, you won’t lose the breeze.”

Carter turned. “How did you get a back door in your  _tent?_ ”

“Knife. Zipper. Needle, thread. Not difficult.” She stood up from her cot and tugged open the second flap. The breeze kicked up, bringing the smell of the mess tent.

Carter sat on the end of Natasha's cot and picked up her book. “God, Romanoff, are you  _trying_ to be a walking cliché?”

Natasha snatched  _The Brothers Karamazov_ back, sat on the other end, and opened it to her place. She cracked open the beer, saluted Carter with it— slightly— and started reading again.

“So how’s Barton?”

Natasha turned so she could look pointedly over the book at Carter. “I don’t know.”

“Why not? Is he on a mission?”

Natasha frowned. “ _I don’t know_ .” She took a long swig of her beer and went back to her book, hoping that would shut Carter up.

“Why are you trying so hard to pretend you don’t even like me? We both know that’s not true.”

Natasha choked off her smile. “You’re okay.”

“Fight off mutant freshwater mountain sharks with you and that’s all I get,  _okay_ ?”

Natasha put the book down on the middle of the cot and looked at her. “You are  _really_ bored, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” Carter said fervently.

“And what did you want me to do about it? Paint your nails and gossip?”

Carter shrugged. “You could start a fight. Blow something up. I’m not picky.”

Natasha punched her in the shoulder, not hard.

“The hell was that?”

“You told me to start a fight.”

Carter hoisted her beer. “I would dump this on you, but it’s too hot to waste it.”

“That’s your problem, not mine.”

“So. What do you think of Fury’s new second-in-command?”

Natasha frowned. “Who?”

Carter stared at her. “I thought you were a lethally accomplished international spy who had your ears on everything and your fingers in every pie. How did you not hear about this?”

“I was working. Who is it?”

“Hill.”

Natasha blinked. “… huh.”

“You don’t look that surprised.”

“I have a very good poker face.”

“People keep trying to politely ask him why he picked  _her_ . She’s such a junior agent.”

Natasha smothered a smile. “And what does he say?”

“It gets more outrageous each time. First he said he drew her name out of a hat. Then he said it came to him in a dream. Then he said he owes her a life debt.”

Natasha snorted.

“You knew, didn't you.”

Natasha made a non-committal noise.

“Did you say something to someone?”

Natasha shrugged. “She’s a good leader. She could be a great one.” After a moment, she added, “When you’re not a great leader yourself, you learn to see it in other people.”

“You lead fine.”

“Fine. Not well. Not like Coulson or Barton. Or you.”

“You could always learn.”

“Could. Don’t want to.” You could lead people acceptably by making them fear you. But to lead them really well and inspire their loyalty, you had to give them the truth. Not the  _whole_ truth, but some sort of truth. She wasn’t in the business of doing that. “What do you think of her?”

“She'll do a good job. She has command instinct oozing out of her ears. And probably no one's tried to bribe her yet.”

“Tell me about Robinson,” Natasha said.

“What about him?”

“What happened to him? Do they still think it was for money?” She was admitting to open curiosity. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe she just… trusted Carter.

“Some people say he’s locked away in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s deepest prison. Some people say he’s dead. Some people say they wiped his mind so that it wouldn’t be dangerous to keep him—“

“So you don’t know,” Natasha said, to cover her wince.

“I’m pretty sure it's prison. I  _know_ that they found his numbered Swiss bank accounts, and Fury added them to the fund for all the disability and survivor’s payouts.”

Natasha nodded.

They sat silently, drinking the beer. There was a careful balance between savoring its coolness, and drinking it before it got warm. “We should spar,” Carter said.

“I’d wipe the floor with you.”

“Yeah, but I’d learn something.”

“I’ll think about it.” Maybe tomorrow evening, when all the muscles Carter had overworked on her expedition were making their presence known most loudly.

Carter drained her beer and yawned. “I’m hitting the sack. The cot. Jesus, I’m tired.”

“Thanks for the beer.”

*

Fury showed up at the end of the third week.

He wasn’t pleased. Agents tried to scurry out of his path without making it obvious. Hill was with him; Natasha watched her watch everything. She looked around like everything was a possible concern or problem that she’d be tested on eventually. She probably would be.

Fury and Hill disappeared into Blake’s command center, and all the other agents besides Blake promptly poured out. They tried to stand close enough to eavesdrop, but far enough away that it wouldn’t be obvious they were eavesdropping if Fury came out suddenly. She wasn’t sure why they bothered. They weren't fooling anyone.

She wasn't close enough to make out the words, but she could guess the general gist: “Why haven’t you made more progress, we're supposed to be making the DoD look like incompetent monkeys.” When Fury stormed out, the waiting agents scattered guiltily. He looked around and saw her-- for a man with one eye, he was very good at spotting things that should have been hidden. He turned around and asked something.

“ _Sample analysis_ ?” Fury repeated, loudly and incredulously. He stepped farther into the tent, so whatever he said next was lost.

Fury and Hill stayed long enough to find fault with most of the things the camp was doing, and then left. It was another minute or two before Blake came to the opening of the tent. He looked like he needed a strong drink. Natasha almost felt sorry for him.

Blake, too, saw her. “Agent Romanoff.” When she was inside, he handed her a folder. “You’re to Kabul tomorrow morning. I hope you're as good as you say you are.”

She started off by finding out if anyone she knew was in town-- which could have been good, or bad. Then she kept her head down, looked as nondescript as possible, and watched. She had to give an increasingly impatient Blake status reports each day, but at least he was professional enough not to take his frustration out on her. By the end of a week, she’d identified an extended family whom she was fairly certain was in occasional contact with the Ten Rings.

Blake still complained about the delay, but he couldn’t very well say she’d be more useful at the S.H.I.E.L.D. camp— they weren’t coming up with any leads at all. A bunch of agents had put up a large antenna in the mountains in the hopes of intercepting any signals between the Ten Rings and their collaborators, but so far it hadn’t picked up anything.

After another week, she knew the patriarch of the family she was watching planned to send some things into the mountains, and she knew the young boy and older cousin he was sending. She lay in wait for them the day they left. It took doing, to get the bug onto the car where it would stick, inconspicuously, and look like another lump of rust, but she'd had plenty of time to practice with the slingshot when other leads came up dry.

She gave S.H.I.E.L.D. the frequency and stayed in Kabul, waiting and listening. Two days later S.H.I.E.L.D. reported that the bug had stopped moving in the mountains. It took another two days to get a team in place to inconspicuously check the area. The car was there, but broken down and abandoned. Still, it was a start. There was no sign of any other vehicle meeting them, so the final destination of the supplies couldn't be that far away. S.H.I.E.L.D. pulled whatever satellite footage it could to see what had happened there in the last week, and quietly “borrowed” another satellite to train it on the area full-time.

It frustrated her that no one at S.H.I.E.L.D. was successfully tracing how the Ten Rings had ended up with Stark Industries weaponry. The consensus on the ground was that the Ten Rings had kidnapped Stark to force him to give up secrets about his designs, and find vulnerabilities to exploit against the U.S. military. But if the Ten Rings had access to SI tech, why did they need its creator?

She put in a request to be transferred back stateside to snoop around Stark Industries, but it came back denied with no comment. A little poking around told her that at least Coulson was in charge of that investigation. That was vaguely reassuring. Fury was really hitting this search hard if he had Blake in Afghanistan and Coulson coordinating back home.

The young boy and his cousin never returned to Kabul. Were they with family near the mountains, or had the Ten Rings killed them? If her bug had been discovered-- but it had been intact when S.H.I.E.L.D. found the car.

She was starting to hate Tony Stark. If he were still alive with the Ten Rings, then he was probably being tortured; she could appreciate how unpleasant that was, and feel sorry for him. But every time she called into HQ and heard no news, she felt compelled to go through all the background material on Stark again— and if she watched his pale cheeks bouncing around at the infamous naked birthday party a few more times, she’d start contemplating explosions.

That was another thing that didn’t make sense. Stark was obviously volatile even on his good days. Why bother dealing with him instead of reverse-engineering the weapons themselves? The weapons didn’t run their mouths at a thousand miles per semi-coherent minute in front of reporters, and they didn’t get sued for sexual harassment three times in one year.

S.H.I.E.L.D. finally got a lead based off of some debris at the abduction site. She was working a lead of her own, a young woman whose husband had been killed in an attack that matched the MO of the abduction. But the woman was withdrawn to the point of being reclusive, even for a grief-stricken widow in Kabul. Natasha thought she was scared— which indicated that she probably knew something about her husband’s killers, but made it difficult to get anything out of her short of breaking into her bedroom.

She was working up that entry plan when she heard that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s lead had fallen through. In sheer frustration, she put in a request to be allowed to strike out for the mountains on her own. You could see a long way in the mountains with a pair of binoculars, and she could blend in a damn sight better than anyone else S.H.I.E.L.D. could field. She was willing to risk taking on all the terrorists herself if she could just  _find them_ . They shouldn't have been able to stay hidden this long against the best tech S.H.I.E.L.D. could throw at them. They had access to advanced weapons; was their supplier helping them to hide, too?

Blake turned her down and refused to argue about it. The next day he ordered her back to the camp, and also refused to listen when she pointed out how much time she’d spent building her cover and her contacts. She thought about going back anyway, but he was the kind of agent who would ruin whatever progress she made by sending a team to hunt her, openly, through Kabul. She at least got some good beer before she left.

This time she showed up at Carter’s tent. Carter looked surprised, but took the offered bottle without comment. She did raise an eyebrow when Natasha drained about a third of hers in one long draught.

“Blake,” she said by way of explanation.

“Mmm.”

“I don’t know why he pulled me back,” she added, because the heat was adding to her displeasure. “I’m damn well more useful there than I am here. I gave him one of the only credible leads he’s had all summer.” Blurry satellite footage had corroborated the tracking evidence from the car, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had been concentrating most of their efforts in that area.

“Don’t sound so modest about it,” Carter said drily. “We haven’t been sitting on our asses, eating bonbons and watching soap operas out here.”

Natasha looked at her. “You haven’t?”

Carter looked back. “I would dump this on you,” she said after a minute, “but it’s too hot to waste it.”

Natasha smiled.

“Have you caught up on the gossip yet?” Carter asked, after a quiet pause.

“No.”

“We had another visit from Fury.”

“How was he?”

“Furious.”

Natasha rolled her eyes.

“We got attacked while he was here. Nothing major, a couple of locals-- paid informants for the Ten Rings, we think. Nothing we couldn’t handle. But we didn’t get a chance to. Hill took them down.”

“How?”

“Grenade.”

“She had it on her?”

Carter shrugged. “She came up with it awfully quickly.”

“I like a woman who knows how to accessorize.”

They sat in silence. Finally Natasha drained the last of her beer, saluted Carter with the empty bottle, and wandered off.

Days blurred into another week. She seriously considered going AWOL, but she didn't think “my commanding agent is an ass” would be considered as great of an excuse as “rescuing your best sniper.” But this was  _wrong_ . They were looking in the wrong place and in the wrong way for a clue that would crack this thing open. Without knowing  _why_ and  _how_ , they could stumble around for years without learning  _where_ .

She sat up all night reading all the intel that had come in from  _outside_ Afghanistan. Then she put in a request to go to Moscow. If there were any old ties from the war that were still active-- and the “new” Russian government liked to have their fingers in everything, though their level of skill was another matter-- then she would find them there. She followed that one up with requested transfers to Tehran, Istanbul, Bucharest, Tbilisi, Odessa, and even Paris, each with a meticulously researched and written justification. The Ten Rings had never been seen as far west as Paris, but there were always threads to pick up, if you knew where to look.

The next morning, Blake approved the Moscow request. He was holding  _all_ the requests, and he had a harried look on his face that made her think she'd worn him down through sheer annoyance. She certainly wasn't going to argue.

Two weeks in Moscow stretched into three. All she had were negative results-- no connection here, no connection there, this old arms supplier dead now. Still, that had some value. On her way back, she swung through Paris for two nights. She made it to the airport about an hour ahead of two outraged casino owners, four angry wives, and at least one hitman hunting her blood, with a lead Coulson could run to ground in the States. When she got back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. camp, Blake actually smiled— she was surprised it didn’t crack his face— and said, “Good work, Agent Romanoff.”

The heat wave hadn't broken. She was sitting in the mess, considering how best to blackmail a junior agent into getting her some of the camp’s precious ice supply, when someone sat down across from her. She looked up to scare them away— and blinked.

Clint took advantage of her surprise to steal food off her plate. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here? Are you back on active duty?”

His face went blank. “Not as a sniper.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. “Fury sent me out here to use my eyes. I’ll be flying as a spotter.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Just got in. I’m still on… I don’t even know what time zone my head’s in. How’ve you been?” He stole more of her food.

She shrugged. “Can't complain. You have a place to sleep yet?”

“No.”

“Find a cot and you can share mine until they give you something else.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s small,” she warned.

“As long as I can rack out horizontally I don’t care.”

He showed up at her tent around dusk, having scrounged a cot from somewhere. He did look exhausted. She got out of his way while he set it up, then gave him the pair of earplugs  _she’d_ scrounged up, because she was a good partner. “I’ll be in later.”

Clint gave her a vague wave, already sprawled out. When she came in a few hours later, he barely even woke.

She slept lightly and woke around dawn. In the growing light, with his face relaxed in sleep, it was easy to see that the pain lines around his mouth and eyes had gotten deeper still since she’d seen him in New York. He looked tired, and older. It made her unhappy in a way she couldn’t explain and wasn’t sure what to do with.

“Kinda creepy, Romanoff,” he muttered without opening his eyes.

She smiled. “You’re welcome, Barton.”

A few days later she slipped into the mess as the cooks were cleaning up. One of them owed her a favor, and she was calling it in.

“You want me to do  _what?_ ”

“It shouldn't be too hard.”

“Romanoff, we're in the middle of the desert with limited supplies. How the hell am I supposed to manage this?”

She looked at him. “You managed to get your boyfriend the most beautiful cupcakes I've ever seen, for your anniversary, when you were posted to Missouri and he was posted to Manhattan, and you talked  _me_ into taking them. I think you can manage.”

He grumbled, quietly.

She looked at him, took a chance, and batted her eyelashes outrageously. He laughed and told her to go away.

But he stopped her before she got out of the tent. “Who's this for?”

“Me.”

“I thought you'd be a better liar than that, Romanoff.”

She smiled sweetly, and went on her way.

She picked up her favor the next night, and carried it to Clint's tent. She was lucky to find him there. “Here.” She held it out without ceremony.

He took it with both hands, then looked at it, then back to her. “Is this--”

“It's not a bomb.”

“What? That's not what I was-- is this a  _birthday cake_ ?”

“Not much of one. And a little late.” She was alarmed by his evident emotion. She'd never had a birthday cake herself; had she underestimated their significance?

“You just happened to have it lying around.”

“Pretty much.”

He took out a pocketknife and wiped the blade on his pants. “You got any plates?”

“You think this is a Michelin three-star?”

They sat on the floor of his tent, eating with their hands. “No idea how you pulled this off, but, uh, thanks.”

“I thought you'd need some solace about your increasing old age.”

He looked at her, but declined to dignify that with a response.

A shadow fell over the open door. “Barton, I--” It was Carter. She stopped and looked down. “What are you doing?”

“Eating cake,” Clint said.

“I can see that. Where did you get cake in the middle of the desert?”

“Ask Natasha.”

Natasha shrugged. “I'm just that damned good.”

Clint offered Carter a piece. She took it, and sat down with them. “What's the occasion?”

“He had a birthday,” Natasha said. “He looks pretty good for thirty-eight, doesn't he?”

“Really? I didn't think you were that old.”

Natasha snickered as Clint pulled the rest of the cake out of her reach.

She didn’t see him much after that— he was doing flights during all the daylight hours and some of the night ones, and she was sent out to talk to another group of possible informants. She came back after another week with another possible lead, and surprised Blake in the otherwise-empty command center. He was holding a plastic container with pills of several sizes and colors.

“Agent Romanoff.”

She obediently made eye contact so he could slip the pill organizer up his sleeve. He did it smoothly; it looked practiced. She gave her report and left without asking.

She ran into Clint in the mess tent that evening, and if she came back at the same time the next evening and was pleased that he was there as well— there weren't many other agents she actually wanted to talk to. They didn’t say much. Another agent started to sit down with them. Natasha and Clint both looked up at her at the same time. She retreated backwards hurriedly.

The next morning, she walked in, and a cluster of agents bunched around a table all looked up at her. A couple looked from her, to the tablet in the middle of the table, and back to her. She went close enough to look at the tablet, and they leaned back to let her, with something that might have been terror or awe. It was footage from Paris. She smiled, and went to get in line.

The morning after that, Blake found her at breakfast. “Agent Romanoff. Your request is approved.” He dropped a file folder on the table.

She frowned, took it, but didn’t open it. “My request.”

“Take your team and search along the high-probability areas we’ve identified. Your top priority is being discreet. We don’t want to spook the Ten Rings.”

She thought there was little chance the Ten Rings hadn’t noticed them, but she kept that to herself. In her request, she hadn't asked for a team. Who had Blake stuck her with? She opened the folder, and frowned. “You want me to lead  _them_ ?”

“Be gone by dawn.”

She held the team briefing in her tent. It was short. Clint sprawled on his back with his legs across the bottom of her cot; Carter sat cross-legged by the flap, frowning.

“I bet you’re wondering why I’ve called you here today,” Natasha began, deadpan.

Carter rolled her eyes.

“You found where they’re keeping the camel experiment?” Clint guessed.

“The— what camel experiment?”

He glanced over at her. “Oh. Never mind.”

She was beginning to understand why Coulson had developed so many sarcastic pre-emptive strikes to use on Clint during briefings. “We’re going into the mountains to hunt for Stark ourselves. Using our “senior agent instincts,” or whatever. Our orders are to locate only, no engagement. Once we find him, we call for backup.”

“Blake’s really getting desperate,” Carter observed.

“Apparently.” Natasha flipped open the file folder and laid it on her cot. Clint sat up to look; Carter leaned over her shoulder. “This is our search area. I chose this route after consulting the topographical maps, but I’m open to suggestions.”

“What’s our gear?”

“Basic survival gear. Whatever weapons we can conveniently carry. The best scopes we can borrow or steal in the next twelve hours. A rifle for Barton.”

“No bow?” Carter asked.

“No.” Clint’s voice was flat.

“We’re taking a jeep. Logistics has supposedly disguised it so it screams “secret agents” a bit more softly. I’m going to go check it out now.”

“We’re still going to scream secret agents,” Carter said. “Are you and I putting on local garb? Or dressing like men?” If she doubted Natasha’s ability to be a convincing-looking man, she kept it to herself.

“We’re being mercs. Barton and I have both been mercenaries in real life,” Natasha added. “It shouldn’t be a hard disguise.”

“I didn’t know you were a mercenary,” Carter said to Clint.

“It’s not something I advertise.”

“Questions?” Natasha asked. “Suggestions?”

Carter frowned, then shook her head.

“Barton?”

He was studying the map thoughtfully. “Maybe. I’ll find you when you’ve checked out the jeep.”

“I’ll come with you for that,” Carter added.

The jeep looked pretty good, in that it looked pretty bad. Carter popped the hood to make sure everything was still working; the mechanic standing nearby glared at her like Carter had just spit on her mother’s grave. Natasha checked the exterior, then looked over Carter’s shoulder. It galled her less now than it would have two years ago, to admit that Carter knew more about vehicle maintenance than she did.

“Yeah, looks good,” Carter said finally. “Won’t give us away even if they catch us and pop the hood. Not sure how you managed that,” she added to the mechanic.

“By being  _very good at my job_ ,” the mechanic said stiffly.

They left before dawn. Natasha got to the jeep early, and discovered that the other two had had the same idea. They bounced away from camp in the cold, dim morning, on a circuitous route she hoped would disguise their origin. Clint drove; he was the best driver and had the best eyes.

As the sun got hotter, Natasha pulled her burnoose over her head and checked her weapons. Behind her, she heard Carter doing the same. They were all making an effort not to look like secret agents, but Natasha's and Clint's favorite weapons weren't standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue, anyway. Carter had had to be a little more adaptable.

They made camp after dark. Natasha’s butt hurt from jouncing around all day. The terrain would only get rougher from here. She anticipated they’d have to abandon the jeep in a few days. They ate quietly; she took first watch. Soon the only noise she heard was the wind, and Clint and Carter’s quiet breathing.

It still boggled her mind, that they were here, sleeping, trusting her to watch their backs. She’d accepted that Clint was an exception to all her rules. But Carter— what the hell was wrong with  _her?_ Even harder to process was the knowledge that she’d trust Carter to have her back, too, and not just in the way that she tentatively trusted most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to be competent enough not to get her killed.

Their search began the next day in earnest. It was strenuous work, and it would only get worse the farther they got into the mountains. One of them— usually Clint— found a high spot from which to watch the area, and the other two systematically searched for any sign that people had been here lately, until they could be sure that no one had. They didn't find much. They bagged a few bullet casings that could have been from anything for Forensics. Still, the process of elimination would help, even if it was frustrating as hell.

They made a wide circle that brought them back towards the S.H.I.E.L.D. camp at a higher elevation. They weren't going to get more than one more day out of the jeep. She took lookout duty that morning, straddling the rocky outcrop she'd chosen. She didn't see anyone, or any suspicious glints of metal. She let her eyes drift, trying to pick out patterns that didn’t belong.  _If I were a terrorist group with a high-value hostage, where would I hide?_

That assumed the Ten Rings still had Stark alive. She couldn’t believe that, as fantastically wealthy and smart as he was, and with so many enemies, Stark didn't have an implanted microchip. Maybe the signal couldn’t get out in the mountains. Maybe no one had the frequency. According to his file, he had no living family, and few real friends. Or maybe whoever had sold him out, because someone  _had_ to have sold him out, had known enough to block the frequ--

The explosion stunned her, kicking up clouds of dirt. When her vision cleared, she saw Carter's body, thrown like a rag doll against the scarlet-stained rocks.

_Where?_ There-- a deep crater. Long-buried Soviet mine? Didn't matter now; they weren't under attack.

She sprinted downhill. She got to Carter before Clint did. She didn't bother feeling for a pulse, just pushed down as hard as she could on the largest wound. If Carter's heart stopped beating, she'd know. “Get the jeep!”

Somehow Clint got it up the slope, bouncing with the screeches of stressed metal. He jumped out; together they got Carter into the front seat, on Natasha’s lap, with the seatbelt around both of them. The weight of Carter’s head sank back on Natasha’s shoulder. Clint stripped off his uniform top and his belt.

“Do mine.”

Clint sliced her top off in two pieces. He got all the cloth into a neat stack; she lifted her fingers, and Clint quickly shoved the makeshift bandage under them. He tied the belt as tight as it would go; she pressed down as hard as she could. Clint started the engine, and they bounced downhill. Rapidly. Violently. Even if they didn’t hit any more mines, they’d be lucky to survive this.

She wrapped her legs around Carter’s to arrest her downward slide as they fell more than drove, tilted about forty-five degrees down. Hot blood was oozing out from between her fingers no matter how hard she tried to stop it.  _Of all the scenarios where I end up with her blood on my hands, I doubt this is the one she imagined_ .

They came off a short slope, went airborne for a minute, and hit a huge rock. Even Clint couldn’t keep them from tilting— they overcorrected— she hit her head hard on the back of the seat.

She didn't lose consciousness, or her grip, but things were hazy for a minute. Somehow Clint steered a path around the worst rocks and drops— but one wrong move and they’d break an axle, and Carter would die out here.

When they reached a small plateau, Clint called it in, demanding a medevac from base. Hanging on as he steered with one hand was one of the most nerve-wracking things she’d ever experienced. They were in free fall about half the time. The sun dried Carter’s blood to a sticky mess all over Natasha’s hands, arms, and pants.

They made it onto the relatively flat plain. She wasn’t sure Carter was still alive when they caught sight of the camp. That was unexpectedly… awful. She didn’t want Carter to die. She especially didn’t want Carter to die in her arms in a futile bid to get her to help. She didn’t even mock herself for her sentiment.

Thank the God she didn’t believe in, the helicopter was waiting, and everyone and everything was off of the path between them and the landing field. Even before Clint turned the engine off, the medics were reaching in to cut the seatbelt off and put a better bandage on Carter. They seemed to have more than two hands each, as they tried to stop the bleeding, clean the area, and get Carter onto a backboard. They paused long enough to get an IV in while she was on solid ground, and then loaded her. Natasha looked around for Clint. He was ducking into the helicopter. She hesitated, then followed his lead. The medics were too busy with Carter to protest.

It was cramped and loud; the smell of blood filled the small space. She and Clint jammed into the very back, with room only to lean against the bulkhead and each other. If they hit turbulence, the two of them would go flying. Carter was very, very pale. Natasha couldn’t see if she was still breathing.

They came in for a fast, hard landing at the airstrip of the American base. She and Clint stayed back while Carter was unloaded, then followed her. A couple of soldiers tried to stop them; Clint flashed his ID, their eyebrows went up, and they stepped out of the way.

They waited in the corridor. Doctors and nurses were still hurrying in and out of the room, which told her enough; you didn’t move like that for a corpse.

Carter was wheeled out again. Natasha followed; a nurse blocked her way. “You can’t go with her. She’s going to surgery.”

“How is she?”

“The blood loss was mostly from shrapnel, not gross trauma. She was lucky to make it here; let’s hope that luck doesn’t run out on the operating table.”

“How long will the surgery be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you bring her back here if she survives?”

“Unless she needs to be evacuated immediately, yes.”

Natasha went back and told Clint. He nodded, leaned against the wall, and went to sleep.

She kept her eyes open and watched the people going by. A few gave them odd looks. One tried to insist they move. She showed her ID, folded her arms across her chest, and stared him down. It probably helped that she was still covered in Carter’s blood.

When Clint woke up, she went to find a bathroom and washed most of it off. It took a while; when she came back with coffee for the both of them, Carter was also back. “They say the odds are she’ll make it, but it’s still about 65-35,” Clint reported.

She nodded. When he didn’t move, she sat down next to him again, and handed him the cup. He had an air of being settled that was almost geological. He looked over at her. “They can find you a place to sleep if you want.”

_They could for you, too_ . Why had Clint come here to keep vigil for Carter? Because they were friends? Was that how it worked? This was unusual, which meant it was interesting. “I’m fine here.”

“I’ll watch if you want to sleep.”

They were in public, and someone who knew her could appear at any second. But--  _I'll watch_ meant more from Clint than from anyone else.

When she woke up, her butt was numb and her mouth was dry. Clint handed her a bottle of water and a candy bar. She was ravenous, but she broke it and handed half back to him. She was tired, and she wanted to be somewhere else. But if Clint was staying here, she would stay here.

And-- she’d washed Carter’s blood out from under her nails, but the image was surprisingly hard to push away. She’d feel better once she knew Carter was going to make it.

Clint slept again. Then she slept again, and went to find them what passed for real food here.

As they finished eating, silently, she heard a pair of footsteps that stood out because they were so hard to hear: slow and soft, very unlike the tread of a boot. Clint looked up. Then he stood. He didn’t  _actually_ salute, but he definitely straightened up. “Ma’am.”

The short, frail white-haired woman, posture straight despite her obvious age and the cane in her left hand, nodded at him. “Agent Barton.” She turned and looked through the door. “News was limited on the plane. How is she?”

“She's expected to survive, and the longer she makes it, the better her odds get.”

“You got her here?” The woman didn't look away from Sharon.

“We did. Yes.”

Natasha eyed Clint at the  _we_ . The other woman turned, too, and looked at her, though Natasha was almost certain she'd been aware of Natasha as soon as she’d entered the corridor. “You I don’t know.” There was both speculation and a sharp-edged invitation in her accented voice.

“Natasha Romanoff. If you’re Margaret Carter, you should know that I killed one of your family friends.”

Carter studied her with eyes no less perceptive for their age. “Yes, Sharon told me about that.”

Natasha had been the subject of conversation of Carter family dinners?

More footsteps. Natasha recognized them this time, but she was still surprised. “Peggy. I came as soon as I could.” He held out his hand.

“Nick.” Carter took his hand; then Fury covered it with his other one. “Thank you for the plane.”

“Of course.”

“If the Council gets onto you for it, just send them to me.” Her smile showed her teeth.

Fury’s smile was no less frightening for being genuinely amused. “I intended to.”

Carter looked past him. “Thank you, Agent Barton. Agent Romanoff.”

“Ma’am.” Clint turned to go, so Natasha followed him.

A nurse who’d passed them several times as they sat found them a half-empty storeroom to sleep in. Someone had given Clint a clean undershirt, but her tank top and her hair were still stiff with Carter’s blood. She half-filled a clean bucket with soapy water. Then she knelt in the dark room, as Clint slept on the other side, and used rough paper towels to scrub off the blood of her… friend. Here, in the privacy of her own mind, in the dark and the quiet, she could admit that.

Her arms were sunburned from being exposed on the ride back, and the scrubbing stung. It reminded her too much of Panama. When she’d gotten the blood off, she swirled her tank top around in the water until it was pliable again, wrung it out, draped it over the top of the bucket, and fell asleep beside Clint.

Her top was still damp when she woke up, and clung in unfortunate places when she tugged it on. It would dry quickly in the heat. Clint was gone. She'd been exhausted, to sleep through him leaving.

She turned down the corridor to Carter's room, and found Clint talking to the other Carter. Natasha watched them from a distance until she noticed he was drinking out of one cup and holding another full cup in his other hand. If it wasn’t for her, it was now. He held it out as she came up behind him; she took it.

Director Carter was wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing yesterday and looked very, very tired. She had to be at least eighty-five, maybe ninety. Natasha remembered Sharon’s files: she and her grandmother were all the family each had left.

Director Carter, too, had a cup. She drank appreciatively. “Where exactly did you find proper tea on an American army base, Agent Barton?”

Clint’s smile was actually charming. “I’m a man of many talents, ma’am.”

_Oh my God_ . Natasha tried not to laugh.

Clint turned to her. “They’re transferring Carter to Munich.”

“She was awake earlier,” Director Carter added. A small, satisfied smile creased her wrinkled face. “Not for very long. But she gave me a message for the two of you: thank you, and she’s forgotten who owes who.”

Natasha tried to figure that out, too, and gave it up as pointless. “She can buy us a drink when she’s back on her feet.”

Footsteps behind them: four people in S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms accompanied by a couple of military doctors. The oldest of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, a man whose black hair was liberally streaked with silver,  _did_ salute when he saw Carter. Natasha pegged him as ex-military. “Director!” He looked from the Carter in the hall to the Carter in the room, and seemed to make the connection for the first time. “We’re ready to move your granddaughter. Ma’am. And you’re to come with us.”

“Quite right.”

The Army doctors and three of the S.H.I.E.L.D. medics went into the room. The fourth stopped next to Natasha and Clint. “Orders came in right before we left, so we brought them down. You're coming with us to Munich and from there to Manhattan.”

Natasha and Clint looked at each other. Clint took the offered tablet. The orders were legitimate, but there was no reason given. So they followed the Carters and their medical entourage onto the plane. The ride was long enough that she probably could have finished  _The Brothers Karamazov_ , but it was in her tent. Instead she slept. When she woke to find her head on Clint's shoulder, she didn't even care. Much. She was tired, and no one was looking.

She walked around the deck to stretch her legs. Director Carter was asleep. The medics had found a surprising number of battered old cushions somewhere, trying to make her as comfortable as an old woman could be on a cargo plane. Two of the medics were also asleep. She couldn't tell if Clint's eyes were completely closed.

Carter-- Sharon-- was  _not_ asleep, drugged nearly, but not quite, insensate. She seemed to be looking in Natasha's direction, so Natasha came closer. 

But not too close. She knew what painkillers could do to your mind, the nightmares they could bring out, and knew that Sharon had hated, perhaps feared her, for a long time. That was a lot of material for a subconscious gone astray to work with.

Carter muttered something-- “Hawkeye,” and then something that didn't make any sense, and her eyes closed. Natasha went back to the wall and fell asleep again.

In Munich, she and Clint had to wait for a ride. She got a clean uniform and showered in the women's locker room. Cleanliness felt fantastic. Then she wandered the grounds. The damage from H.Y.D.R.A. and Robinson had all been repaired.

Fury had made it back to Manhattan before they did, probably visiting half a dozen other trouble spots on the way. Natasha would have walked by, but Clint stopped and waited until the crowd of agents around Fury had dissipated.

“Sir, do you know how Agent Carter is doing?” Clint asked.

“As well as can be expected. The doctors say she has a long road ahead of her, but she's just as stubborn as her grandmother, so that's in her favor.”

“Good,” Natasha was surprised to find herself saying. “She was incoherent on the plane. Called me something that didn't--” She frowned. “Called me Hunnicutt.”

Clint made a weird choking noise. “She-- what were her words exactly?”

“'If it isn't Hawkeye and Hunnicutt.' She knew you, but not--”

She looked from Clint to Fury. She'd never seen that look on Fury's-- he was trying not to  _laugh_ . “What?” she demanded.

“I'm sorry, sir. I've failed my partner. Her training is not complete. Remedial MASH watching is in order.” Clint's voice was almost steady, only a bit choked off.

“ _What?_ ”

“Agents, go away.” The no-nonsense tone in Fury's voice would have been more convincing if the corner of his mouth hadn't still been twitching. He looked them over. “You saved her life. Good job. And thank you.” He actually  _smiled_ .

She stumbled to her quarters and had a fantastic six hours of uninterrupted sleep on an actual bed. When she woke up, she checked for new orders and wasn't surprised to see a briefing scheduled. She went to the mess first. It was early, but she wasn't the only one there. Coulson was sitting alone at a small table in the back. She got some coffee and a large plate of food and joined him. “Morning.”

“Good morning, Natasha.”

She looked down at what he was reading. It was a report from Afghanistan. “When do we go back?”

“You don't. They found Stark. That was the other reason the director was there.”

“Where?”

“The Army. They're being close-mouthed as hell about the whole thing, and the place we think Stark came out of is now a smoking crater.”

She digested this. “Is he...”

Coulson tilted his head. “Alive, mobile, and coherent. Though some people wish he weren't. The first thing he did when he got back was announce Stark Industries was pulling out of the weapons business.”

Her eyebrows went up.

“I've been to Malibu to try to talk to him,” Coulson continued. “No luck. I'm going back in two days. But I was slated to relieve Blake when he went Stateside for treatment, so this is strongly preferable.”

“Huh.” She drank her coffee, and ate her way steadily through her food. “I have it on good authority that I'm a better kisser than you are.”

Coulson went still. “I wouldn’t call Barton ‘good authority.’” He looked like he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation, which, after years of provoking Coulson into being increasingly unflappable, pleased her.

“He’s the best authority. He’s kissed both of us.”

“Apples and oranges, Natasha.”

“What?”

“Is Barton up? We could do the briefing early.”

“I don't know. I thought it was your day to watch him.” She tilted her cup to get the last of her coffee. “Want to spar while we're waiting?”

“If I had a death wish, I'd just steal Barton's car. He'd kill me faster than you would.”

“I would never kill you, Coulson. Who else would I give grey hairs to? Fury's bald. Sitwell's bald. Even Blake's bald right now.”

“Agent Hill,” Coulson suggested. “She's not bald.”

“I strongly suspect she's very hard to shock.”  _Freshwater mountain sharks._ Natasha paused. “How do you think she'll do?”

Coulson thought about it. He got up and returned with fresh coffee for both of them. “She's young.”

“I already knew that.”

“It was an... unusual choice. Not who I was expecting.”

“Who were you expecting? You?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn't have taken the job if he'd offered it to me.” He doctored his new cup with creamer. “She thinks differently from most of the people who were considered inside favorites for the job. She doesn't think like the high-level suits. I think it's a good thing.” He pushed the creamer away without offering it to Natasha; he knew her coffee preferences. “On the other hand, she's inexperienced. She's lacking the perspective and the know-how that ten solid years of missions gives you.” He tasted his coffee and reached for the sugar. “On the third hand, she's impressively resourceful.”

“How did all the senior suits feel about having her promoted over their heads?”

“There was... some sustained grumbling. It started to die down once they saw just how much Fury was asking of her-- and how well she managed to do the things he gave her. It... was impressive.”

“You're repeating yourself.”

“I'm not an easy person to impress,” Coulson pointed out.

“You're not?” she asked innocently.

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “There are very few people who  _wouldn't_ be impressed by your skills, Natasha.” He took a drink. “She's very sensible. Very little fazes her. She has that going for her-- levels of no-nonsense that some senior agents still haven't developed. She--” His phone rang. “No, I didn't authorize that transfer. What?” He grabbed his stuff and hurried away with such haste that he left his coffee.

Medical had grabbed Clint for a check-up as soon as he'd registered as on-base; between that and Coulson's sudden problem, it was afternoon before they met for the briefing. She looked at the tight line of frustration between his eyebrows as he took the seat across from her. “Not cleared?”

“No.”

“They--” Coulson began.

“Have my best interests at heart. I know. You've said.”

She couldn't remember ever hearing Clint talk to Coulson with that much flat, angry frustration before.

“I was going to say, they told you they didn't know how long it would be.”

“Yes. I remember that too.” There was a heavy silence. “What's the mission?”

“It's... not exactly a  _mission_ .” He turned his tablet so they could both see it.

She raised an eyebrow. Clint looked at the screen, at her, then at Coulson. “What did the baby agents ever do to you?”

“Director Fury has been, hmm...  _increasingly frustrated_ with the flaws and mistakes on the part of too many junior and mid-level agents, that the Stark episode revealed. So I volunteered the two of you.”

“What did  _we_ ever do to you?”

Coulson looked at her.

She smiled. “Besides all that stuff.”

Clint looked down. “'Remedial Spycraft.' Hey, she's the spy, I just shoot things.”

“Nice try, weasel,” she said.

“They're  _suits_ . What are we supposed to teach them?” Clint asked.

“Terrify them into some competence,” Coulson said. “They need it. The failure assessments are all in there. They'll tell you what exactly went wrong. Good luck.” He pushed back his chair and left.

She looked at Clint. Clint looked at her. “This'll be  _great_ ,” he said.

After two hours of reading the reports on these agents, she shared Clint's non-enthusiasm even more. “How are any of them still  _alive_ ?”

Clint put down the paper copies he'd found, and leaned even further back on two legs of his chair, his shoulders against the wall and his feet on the table. “Some of 'em aren't. The casualty report on the two that died in Beirut last year and the one from Cartagena look a lot like this. Haven't seen the one from Reykjavik or Vaasa yet, but I know we lost two more.”

At her enquiring glance, he shrugged. “Sometimes I get curious about the cohorts I've taught.”

“You've... taught all these guys?”

He shook his head. “No. None of these nine, actually. The casualty reports I found, uh, tangentially.” He flipped a couple of pages. “If I had to pick, I'd say the biggest problem here is that they're too good with authority. Terrible with initiative and thinking for themselves. They should have all the skills, they went through training, they just don't know when to use them.”

“Hmm.” She stretched. “Keep them constantly off-balance? I can do that.” She smiled at him. He smiled back. They weren't nice smiles.

*

Two days later, the baby agents straggled into the room where Clint was waiting. She tailgated the last one in and took a seat in the back, with her back to the wall.

“Hi,” Clint said, leaning against the desk in front. “I'm Agent Barton. Upstairs sent you to me because they think you're fuckups, and they want me to fix you.”

The embarrassed disgruntlement was palpable.

He pulled out a stack of manila folders. “So we're gonna start by dissecting the Stark mission.” He tossed one to each agent. Two of them fumbled them, dropped them, and had to pick them up off the floor.

It was like watching him pull teeth to try to get the agents to talk about their mistakes. But it had never bothered her to watch people in pain who deserved it. She was, actually, kind of enjoying it. From the barely perceptible lines of stress around Clint's eyes and mouth, it was much less entertaining to be doing the pulling.

She slipped off the wig and clear glasses she'd come in with and straightened up after about an hour. No one noticed; they were all too caught up in their frustration, and hating Clint's guts, and hating their own guts.

They didn't seem  _hopeless_ . Maybe one or two of them. The rest just had a long way to go. This really wasn't her kind of thing, but at least no one was shooting at her. Yet. She stuck the wig and glasses in her bag and started taking everything else out.

“Look, your problem is that you expect your work to make sense,” Clint said. “You think, oh, this is a tail, so a, b, or c could happen, but this is a stakeout, so it could only be b or c or d. Your job doesn't come with an if-then flowchart. You have to be ready for anything.”

There was a pause. “Like what?” one of the least hopeless agents asked, sounding less combative than she had before.

Clint shrugged. “Well, you've had the world's deadliest assassin in your blind spot for three hours and it--”

A mad scramble to turn around.

“-- hasn't occurred to you that this could be--”

The closest ones saw her two guns, four knives and one garrotte spread on the desk in front of her, and their hands made aborted darts into their jackets.

“-- anything other than a training seminar.”

She smiled cheerfully at them, and kept her hands in sight.

A couple of them finally got their guns out, but didn't point them at her.

“It could be worse.” Clint sounded resigned. “Go eat lunch or coffee or commune with your navel or something. Meet back in an hour in C gym.”

They should have been anxious to get out of there, but they were strangely reluctant to file out. As each of them passed her, sitting by the door, she made sure to make eye contact and give them a friendly smile. That got them moving much faster.

Clint collapsed into a chair near her. “I don't care what Coulson says, this is revenge.”

“They're... probably not hopeless.”

Clint looked at her.

“They knew what they'd done wrong.”

“I'd have more faith in that if I didn't think it'd come from scoldings from superiors and reading these same reports.” He stretched, methodically. “Well, you get 'em this afternoon. That'll be fun.”

“Fun for me and 'fun' for them,” she agreed, smirking.

Four of them had thought to either change into sweats or bring a pair along. They stood in a loose clump at the edge of the mats, watching her. She was perched on the balance beam, swinging her legs idly. The exercise equipment at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s various facilities had changed since she'd joined-- there were more hand-to-hand classes that emphasized flexibility and agility, and correspondingly, an increasing amount of gymnastics equipment. Not a lot, but enough.

A few of them looked around, probably for Clint, but none of them looked up.

She slipped off the balance beam and walked towards them. She smiled brightly, in greeting, and kicked at the nearest agent as soon as she was in range.

He barely got out of the way in time, and put his arm up to deflect the glancing blow. Also one of the least hopeless-- she'd thought about it, and decided they'd learn more from her starting with someone who had half a chance than from the humiliation that would have resulted if she'd gone after one of the others.

“Buy me dinner first,” he gasped, getting his hands up and into posture for a counterattack, or to intercept a second attack. Not bad form-- not worse than the average agent. They just needed to be able to  _expect_ an attack.

She didn't let her amusement show. “You don't want that.”

His eyes widened.

She feinted towards his head. As he was still recovering, she moved on to the agent next to him, putting her on the floor before she knew what had hit her.

She had time to attack a third before three of the remaining agents rushed her at once.  _Good_ . She took them down without much difficulty, shoving one into the second, flooring the third, and then turning back to deal with the other two once they'd untangled. When she was done, she backed up. “Good,” she said. “You have better survival instincts than the average sheep. Now you three.” She gestured at the three she hadn't encountered yet.

They looked at each other, hesitating for a full second, way too long. Then they charged. She was able to take them down much too easily. “Not so good,” she said.

Two quick footsteps behind her. She dropped her center of gravity and spun as the first agent she'd attacked tried to tackle her to the ground. His lunge overreached when she wasn't where he expected. But he recovered quickly. She let his kick connect just enough to give her backwards momentum, sprang off the floor, got her legs around his torso, rotated, and threw him to the ground.

He lay there looking stunned. Most of the others looked stunned. Some of them looked stunned and impressed, or stunned or thoughtful, or something.

“Initiative... good,” she purred.

The agent she'd taken down-- Bradley-- looked like he didn't know whether to be pleased or scared.

“Let's continue.”

After about forty-five minutes she let them break for water and a breather. They needed to learn endurance and stamina, but she wasn't going to be cruel. She would never be cruel. Not for real, not to people who didn't deserve it. She turned to get her own water bottle, stashed behind the balance beam.

They'd gotten quieter. She ducked this attack, too, and hit her assailant in the face with her water bottle. The other woman, Wei, staggered back, looking startled, and put her hand up to her face. Natasha knew she wasn't badly hurt.

Natasha gave her a real smile. “Now you're getting the hang of it.”

After the break, she led a more structured session, teaching them some tricks and new techniques. Then they sparred again. She put them all down, but three of them managed to go two exchanges-of-blows and one actually landed a hit on her. Even better, they all looked nervous-- they looked alert, looking around, expecting something they couldn't define. Good.

But the darts raining down from the rafters caught them all flat-footed. The first two missed hitting anyone-- deliberately, she thought. When the third stuck to a hapless agent by the tiny suction cup on its blunt tip, some of the others were already diving for cover. Bradley yanked the mats up and held them up as a shield. After half a second, the others followed suit, wriggling beneath the thick, feet-scented pads. One or two looked back at her uncertainly, maybe waiting for her to call foul. She just smiled. True, those mats would never stop real projectiles. But they needed to learn to deal with what  _was_ happening to them, right then, not what they expected or what was they thought might happen.

A lump moved quickly under the mats-- one of the agents heading for the edge. The darts paused. Some of the agents lifted their cover higher than was wise, looking around for the next attack, but none of them actually poked a body part out or exposed it to fire.

To fire coming from directly overhead, anyway. If she listened very carefully, she could hear Clint moving around in the rafters. The next wave of darts came in at a steep angle. Two of them got far enough under the raised mats to find targets. “HEY!” one of the agents shouted, outraged.

She sat on the balance beam and watched; this was Clint's show. The last mat detached from the others with a  _rip_ of velcro, and the agent beneath it continued to crawl across the floor, still under cover. Mostly. Clint changed targets, and two darts came close to hitting hands and feet that momentarily poked out from the mat.

From the way the mats bunched up, the four remaining agents in the middle were close together, planning. The darts paused. How much ammo did Clint have up there?

She wasn't surprised when the rogue mat reached the rock wall. She wasn't surprised that the agent underneath was Wei, either. She'd grabbed one of the darts and stuck it through her bun.  _This could be good_ .

In a real field situation, Wei might've had the equipment to strap the mat to her. Here, she tried to climb one-handed, using the other to keep the mat in position behind and over her. She got farther than Natasha would have given her credit for. Then one dart stuck to her leg, exposed as she made a lunge, and another hit her shoulder when she let her arm drop in surprise. She slipped-- let the mat drop entirely-- and caught herself before she fell. Clint had tagged her early enough that if she had fallen, it would have hurt but she wouldn't have been. She climbed down, looking both disappointed and pleased.

The four remaining under the mats stood up in unison, each supporting one mat above them and one to the side. They were mostly protected that way. There was a moment when the mat-armor rippled and started to break apart, all of them starting in separate directions. Then they got it together and headed for the opposite wall. She crossed her arms and watched. She had no idea what they intended, and that was refreshing.

She didn't find out. Their visibility was hampered enough that when Clint dropped down on the balance beam beside her, rope, dangling, they didn't see him behind them. Two darts stuck in the middle of the backs of the two agents in behind. The last two standing paused, and charged Clint, but the visibility got them, too. It took them a little too long to notice that Clint was halfway up the rope. He tossed one dart, gently. It arced up, perfectly, then came down right at the edge of the mats, sticking to the agent on the left.

The last agent dropped all the mats and raised his hands. “I surrender,” he said.

“Hmm.” Clint descended the rope and moved forward. “What you did right was surviving this long. What you did wrong was giving up. If you thought there was a chance you'd be taken prisoner, and could escape, that's smart, but--”

The agent dropped his arms, grabbed the dart he'd stuck in the back of his waistband, and lunged for Clint. Clint blocked, grabbed the agent's arm, turned, used the leverage to get him to let go of the dart, and stuck it in the middle of his forehead.

“Trickery,” Clint said. “Always good. Well done.”

She distributed some protective padding and had them split into groups of three and fight for another hour, ordering them to go two-on-one and fight dirty. By the end of the hour they looked like they were about to collapse, but their reaction times had improved significantly. And they were getting better at being ready for anything. If they replayed this morning's quiet ambush now, she suspected they all would have their guns out, much faster.

“Agent Romanoff,” said one of the quiet ones. “Can we watch you spar?”

“You’ve seen me spar.”

He shook his head. “I mean with Agent Barton. Someone who’s a match for you.”

 _No one’s a match for me_. But it was true that out of all of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s agents, Clint was one of the ones who came closest. He’d learned a lot about hand-to-hand since they’d met, much of it from her. Not that he’d been bad to start with. Just not on her level.

She made eye contact with Clint and raised an eyebrow. He nodded once. The agents didn’t need to be told to vacate the mats; they perched on equipment around the periphery with an air of anticipation that was… well, honestly, probably appropriate.

“Are we going to shake hands first?” she asked, eyes wide and mouth solemn. That was what people did before well-conducted challenge matches with set rules, right?

“So you can apply pressure and dump me on my ass? No thanks.” Clint started to circle her.

“Barton, I’m going to dump you on your ass anyway.”

He kept his distance, waiting for her to make the first move. He usually did; he was smart enough to fight conservatively when he was outmatched, and not waste his energy. She took her time before darting in to kick at his ribs. He deflected, grabbed her calf, and twisted. She went in the direction he was forcing her, flipped forward onto her hands, and got free, pulling him off-balance in the process. He kept moving in the same direction, and struck a blow she only partially blocked. It wasn’t often he got the first hit in.

She swept his legs out from under him. He fell and rolled forward, his early acrobat training kicking in. He grabbed for her legs. She kicked his arm, dove forward, and pinned him with the bulk of her weight on his torso. She grabbed his wrist and forced his arm into an awkward angle, neutralizing his potential traction. But he was bigger than her, and he rolled sideways anyway, sending her tumbling to the floor.

He unwisely followed up by trying to pin her while she was still down. She yanked him back down, got her heel in the bottom of his stomach, and her right arm hard across his throat. He reached back towards her eyes. She bit his fingers. He growled in pain, rolled forward, and threw her.

They circled again. He lunged, tackled her to the ground, rolled her in the mats, and then stood her upside down. She _thump_ ed down jarringly, disoriented, desperately annoyed with herself for giving him the opening. It took her multiple heartbeats to get untangled, which made her even more ashamed. She made herself become calm.

Clint was out of sight, but the rope by the balance beam was swaying. It was an obvious trap, or… he hadn’t taken the time to still it. Was he intending to use the suction-tipped darts on her? They were trying to teach the agents to expect anything—

She sauntered off the mats and grabbed her bottle of water like she was giving up, or maybe biding her time. Some of the agents looked disappointed. She drank, capped the bottle, and stretched backwards, easing out every kink and bit of stiffness between her vertebrae. Then she kicked off, landed on her hands, and flipped up to the top of the nearby weight bench. She took a running leap from there to the lower bar, sprung to the higher bar, and ran the length, using the flexibility to give her extra height when she leapt for the rope. She grabbed it high up, shortening its arc-- came near the lowest beam-- let go, flew through the air, grabbed the rafter, and pulled herself up.

She immediately grabbed the next beam and went up a level. At the other end, Clint was facing her, but one of his feet was still angled from a quick turn-- he'd been expecting her to come up the rock wall. She ducked low behind the fan-like array of intersecting beams that ran between this rafter and the ceiling. He had the range weapon, and he wasn’t stupid enough to be lured closer, but maybe she could provoke him.

She heard the agents murmuring below. She coiled the rope around one wrist and undid the knot with the other hand. Clint wasn’t shooting yet, but it wouldn’t take him very long to calculate a shot. The suction tips would make it harder for him to bank a shot off of anything else, so—

_Thock_ . She ducked as a  dart dropped on the beam right next to her. The trickiest part was the timing; she knew how fast Clint could reload. She could wait him out, but he’d never waste all his ammo like that. She crouched and waited for the next shot.

Then she sprang, diving for the intersecting beams and wriggling through. She gained half a second through surprise, but had to leap fast to avoid his next shot. Her fingers brushed the smaller metal supports directly under the ceiling; she grabbed, swung, and grabbed with her other hand. He’d already reacted; she immediately swung hard to her right as another  dart flew by. Then she swung forward to grab the next support, and contorted her body to dodge the next  dart .

Then there were two  darts at once, somehow on slightly disparate flights. She nearly dropped off the ceiling dodging them. One of them passed close enough that she could feel the breeze. 

But she’d had enough time to get the rope over one of the metal supports. She grabbed both ends and let it play out until it was the length she wanted. The next  dart missed by a wide margin, four feet above her head, as she dropped. The rope went taut— she held on through the shock— and her fall turned into an arc.

She aimed carefully. Clint wasn’t wearing a harness and might die if he fell off the beam. He made it easy by ducking, left arm out for balance— she grabbed the rifle between her feet and let her momentum yank it out of his hands. As she swung forward she looked back to make sure he was still on the beam. Then she contorted herself enough to grab the rifle with her left hand.

She was swinging right back towards him. She threw her weight to the side and let go when she was close to the beam, which landed her right behind him. He immediately grabbed for the gun, pulling her off-balance. She let her body fall forward with the force, and almost knocked into him before he realized his danger and let go. He grabbed a dart from somewhere and tried to stick it to her. She gave him the look that deserved, grabbed his wrist, and applied leverage until his whole body twisted.

His legs buckled. He fell. Immediately she grabbed for him— and missed— he got one leg around the beam, swung around, and came up on his knees, just out of her reach. Realizing it had been intentional did not immediately erase the sharp jolt of adrenaline she felt.

She was better at hand-to-hand, but she was fighting a former acrobat in his area of strength. She had his range weapon; there was no reason to indulge his terms any more. She turned and ran down the beam for the end of the room, listening for his footsteps behind her, paying attention to the way the rafter vibrated. She felt him chase her, but she made it to the end overlooking the rock wall, leapt, and caught herself on the handholds. She climbed down. Now, she had his gun— and she also had his rope.

They brought the fight back to the floor. She tossed the rifle away, and let Clint back her up to the balance beam. She flipped backwards onto it, bounced back, and hit him solidly in the chest with her feet. He went down hard. She followed him down— he rolled away instantly, scrambling to his knees while he was still groaning. He’d tensed and dropped his center of balance like he was expecting her to take him down again, so she didn’t, refusing to be predictable.

She was sweating, now, but her breathing was still even. Most of his shirt was dark with sweat, and it glistened on his face as they circled each other. His strategy, so far, had been to react instantly any time she was about to pin him. But his energy would only last so long.

She feinted towards his right side. He overreacted and they both saw it— he doubted his ability to win, she thought, and was on edge to make the most of every opportunity. But then he took half a step back, and visibly relaxed, settling into the calm of a sniper.

She pressed the advantage, forcing him off the mats and close to the exercise equipment. The next time one of his punches got through, she let it knock her back onto her hands. She rebounded, got her legs around his torso-- he dropped to his knees. She had to pull out of her swing at the last second to keep from smashing her head into the carpet. He still fell, but with a shorter distance to the ground, the impact didn’t take him down hard. He was already rolling backwards over his head, and landed a solid kick to her leg while he was in motion.

She ignored the pain. As his head came up at the end of his roll, she slammed into him, pinning him on his stomach. She got her arm across the back of his neck before he could react, her knee in the small of his back, her other leg across his, and braced her foot against the nearest piece of equipment. He reached up to throw her off. She got the point of her elbow in the sensitive part of his bicep, grabbed his wrist with her free hand, and twisted it up to an immobilizing angle. “Yield?”

His roll was uncoordinated and ungainly. It didn’t even throw her off. But it got one leg free of hers. He planted it for leverage and rolled farther and faster, coming down half on top of her. She sat up before he could consolidate his hold, and saw the split-second startled delay in his reactions. The reminder that she was much stronger than she looked was salutary even for him.

She twisted her body to get behind him and got her arm across his throat, again, immobilizing him with her legs. “Yield?”

He fought, but couldn't break free. She wouldn't put it past him to make her hold on until he passed out. She tightened her grip. He strained, all his muscles tense. Then he went slack. She didn’t let up— he’d be much limper if he were unconscious. She waited.

Finally he slapped the carpet. She let go and stood, offering him a hand up, ready if he grabbed it and pulled. He didn’t. He looked resigned. “Every time I think I’ve gotten better, you knock all the delusions out of me.”

She looked at him, eyebrow quirked. “You think you’re the  _only_ one who improves?” She’d trained hard, after Pittsburgh, to make sure she reached her former peak and then surpassed it.

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the trainees applauding. Not just the trainees— there were considerably more people in the room than there had been before, all craning their necks to see past the equipment.

She smiled. “Isn’t that sweet?”

“Little munchkins,” he grumbled.

The extra spectators scattered quickly. She sent the agents back to the classroom where they'd originally met. It was near the end of the working day, but none of  _them_ grumbled. She pulled Bradley and Wei aside and sent them on an errand to someone who could be counted on to keep them out of the way with bureaucratic nonsense. That in itself would be educational. Then she dropped back until she was out of sight of the remaining seven, and listened. She heard them open the door and file in, then sudden silence.

“It's a test,” one of them finally said.

“Run!” another said at the same time.

“We have to evacuate the building!” A third voice spoke over both of them. “You, call the main line, tell them we have a bomb up here and we need the bomb squad and they need to clear out the building. We'll stay here until--”

“My phone's gone.”

She smiled as those who'd had pockets in the gym realized that their phones were missing. It had not been difficult to pickpocket each of them as she corrected their postures and sparred with them. She slipped around the corner and into a particular unoccupied office; the agents would soon find out that all the nearby rooms were curiously empty. They would have to wonder, was it because the bomb wasn’t real and Clint and Natasha wanted to minimize inconvenience to the rest of the base? Or was it because the bomb  _was_ real? She stood on a desk, pulled open the vent, and pulled herself up and into the duct. This was the only office on this end of the floor with a duct wide enough to let someone crawl inside, Clint had told her. She hadn’t made a survey herself.

She wriggled through the ducts, then with difficulty through the access hatch. She found Clint in a small empty space right above their classroom— the reason they’d requested that room, again based on his knowledge. She crawled up beside him. He moved over to make room. She pulled on a pair of infrared goggles— he’d killed the lights while she was en route-- and looked down at the three agents working below.

“I called Security and Maintenance,” he murmured, right in her ear. “They know it’s a training exercise, they’re contacting me as each report comes in, just to be sure.”

She nodded, and leaned forward. “Where’s Wilkerson?” she murmured back. There were only three agents below now.

“Two of ‘em went to evacuate the area, including her. The other two went to find Security.”

“She doesn’t seem to be getting into it very much. She’s just going through the motions.”

Clint made an affirmative noise.

Natasha took out her S.H.I.E.L.D. phone. Where were Wilkerson’s quarters? She pulled it up, then settled in to watch the show.

*

The next morning, she and Clint sat in the back corner of the cafeteria, watching a cross-section of S.H.I.E.L.D. drift in. Included among them were all nine of their agents. They were jumpy and paranoid, staring around like anything could come at them from any moment. Wilkerson was the jumpiest of all of them, and also looked exhausted. Had she stayed up all night to keep watch, or to bar her quarters to prevent another surprise visitor the way the first had arrived?

Even from this distance, Natasha could see that the three who’d tried to defuse the bomb hadn’t gotten all the shiny confetti out of their hair yet. Well, she and Clint had added a bit of helpful adhesive. Just a bit.

Coulson joined them, pulling up a chair without being asked and boldly putting his back to the rest of the room. “I don’t recall asking you to make these trainees the butt of an escalating prank war.”

“Don’t even pretend,” Clint said, not taking his mouth out of his coffee cup, “to be disappointed, sir.”

Coulson smiled.

Eleven days later, they ‘graduated’ a class of eight ultra-paranoid, much-improved agents. Upstairs actually sent someone to give them a little congratulatory speech, which was ridiculous, but rumors about the class had spread quickly. That agent looked nonplussed when the lower-level agents regarded him suspiciously. They were probably never going to forgive Sitwell for the role he’d let Clint and Natasha coax him into playing.

One of them unclipped the agent’s badge and scrutinized it carefully. Two others were looking him up in the S.H.I.E.L.D. databases— and from where she was sitting, it looked like they were using some unauthorized backdoors. Beside her, Clint was killing himself trying not to laugh out loud, his face a disconcerting shade of pink. She permitted herself a smile.

She wasn’t really surprised when Coulson showed up. He watched the whole scene and frowned. “Weren’t there nine of them?”

Natasha looked at him blandly.

Coulson looked back.

She nudged Clint. “Hey, when is the dumpster emptied?”

He frowned, and pretended to check his watch. “Uh… ‘bout half an hour ago.”

She looked up. “No. No, there weren’t.”

Coulson looked… tired. “Why did I think this would be a good idea?” Then he became serious. “I hope the wilder half of the rumors I heard weren’t true—“

Natasha put on her best innocent face.

“— but your training will save some lives. Well done.”

Clint was frowning down at Coulson’s sleeves, which revealed a distinctive pattern of pink tender flesh alternating with normal skin where they'd ridden up. “It looks like someone tried to grill you.”

Coulson pulled his sleeves down— carefully. “No one tried to grill me.” He paused. “You know what they say is the reward for a job well-done.”

“… no, what?” she asked.

“Another job—“

Clint stood up quickly. “I got a, uh, dentist appointment. Sorry, sir, gotta go.”

Natasha made chicken noises under her breath. Clint didn’t stop his mad dash for the door, but he did flip her off. She snorted. Then she looked up. “You know, Coulson, I don’t think I could run this class alone. So if you want a repeat… are you volunteering to help?” She smiled sweetly.

“What would you do if I said yes?”

She eyed him speculatively.

“... Never mind. I’m not saying yes.”

Blake did her next briefing, two days later. He looked gaunt, but his hair was growing back. He nodded in greeting. “How familiar are you with SOSUS?”

“A global network of hydrophones originally for monitoring Soviet submarines. The remaining ones are used for research. Mostly.” The Red Room had sent her to hijack a repair crew, kill them, and use their equipment to plant a device that would make fake signals appear on the hydrophone's output. They hadn't told her why.

Blake nodded again. “Civilian researchers have been attempting to identify a number of unusual sounds believed to have natural causes. For example, this is the bloop.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. Then she raised her other eyebrow when she listened. “It sounds like a bubble.”

“But it's much too loud.” He played another.

“And  _that_ sounds like the alarm on a--” She tripped over the gap in her memory as she tried to name the exact class of submarine she was thinking of. “Where was that taken?”

“It's not an alarm. It's heard all over the Pacific Ocean, mostly in the spring and the fall. Both of those noises are probably benign; scientists think they have to do with icebergs or whales. But occasionally, someone picks up something more alarming.” He played a recording that sounded normal, with a barely-detectable and irrhythmic  _thrum_ at the edge. “We don't know what this is, but it's loud. It doesn't match the profile of any known seismic or volcanic activity. It's coming from the Norwegian Sea, so it's not an iceberg. It's not the sound of any drilling equipment we know of. A clever analyst went back through the archives and matched it to something similar heard in the Scotia Sea a few years ago.”

“Those are on opposite sides of the world.”

“Yes. This year's iteration appears to be centered on an oil rig, out of production, owned by a reclusive billionaire. He's recently been making discrete weapons trades, acquiring lots of arms, and hiring mercenaries. He's also hired a couple of oceanographers. One of them was leading an expedition in the Scotia at the time the other sound was heard.”

“So, what is his plan?” She felt jaded.

“You're going to find out. There's a cocktail party in Paris tomorrow night. Jensen's putting in a rare appearance, so you'll be there, too.”

“If we know he's going to be there, wouldn't it be better to search his office while he's gone?”

“His office is on the oil rig. He lives there.”

“Oh.”

“We had a woman on the inside on his staff, but he lost his temper with her, threw a vase at her head, and told her to get out or he'd throw her off the side.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing. She was exemplary. Apparently he found the lack of opportunity to criticize very frustrating.”

So this was her only chance to get intel out of this weird, bad-tempered man, who probably hadn't become a billionaire by whispering secrets to strangers at cocktail parties. If she could get him alone and convince him no help was coming for him-- convince him he was thousands of miles away...? “What's his security like?”

By the time Blake was done, she had a plan in mind. “Get me the building plans as soon as possible. With the sub-basements.”

“I will.” Blake hesitated. “One other thing. He, ah, likes blondes, apparently.”

She shrugged. “Then I'll be blonde.”

*

She hadn't met Jensen yet, but she would. He was a man who collected trophies, and she had presented herself as one. She knew he'd noticed her; when he was ready, he'd come over. Until then, she circulated and listened, watching the other guests, watching the other guests watch her, watching the other guests watch other guests watch them. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't wrong about this guy. No crowd was this alert and watchful without a reason, and if these were his associates-- or enemies-- then they were all up to something.

Some of the guests were watching her simply because she was eye-catching. She was not going for subtlety tonight. More than one person had eyed her, with various degrees of desire, jealousy, or both, rather obviously wondering how her plunging dress stayed anchored.

Jensen was looking in her direction, talking to one of his men. She pretended not to notice and kept listening to her neighbors: an heiress to a Swedish fortune who was in town about an “art collection”; the daughter of a Russian oil tycoon, who smiled sweetly and said she was here on her father's business; and an American businessman who introduced himself as a VP at Stark Industries and then said very little.

The currents of the room brought her closer to the bar. One of Jensen's men brushed very close to her drink, not making eye contact. Was that how Jensen would play it? No doubt in a few minutes, once the world starting looking funny, another man would offer to take her somewhere quiet where she could lie down. How unfortunate that Jensen wasn't wearing a necktie.

She abandoned her drink and casually lifted another, that she'd watched the bartender make for someone else, from the top of the bar. He was too well-trained as an employee of the idle rich to protest, and started making another for the original intended recipient. She tipped him well and turned away. Maybe time to drift closer to Jensen? The sharp tang of her drink--

She'd watched the bartender make it. There shouldn't have been any sharp tang.

_Don't panic_ . If Jensen's employee really had tried to drug her, they'd be expecting her to leave soon anyway. She just needed to go to ground where they couldn't find her. Had they set her up to take the drink from the bartender? He hadn't seen her watching him, and she'd taken one of four on the top of the bar. Possibly, but unlikely. She thought through the ingredients and the taste. What had he given her? There was vodka, but lots of people here were drinking vodka--

But not  _that_ kind. It was an acquired taste, and the vodka appeared on the export market so infrequently that few non-Russians made the effort to acquire it.

Her job wasn't to save anyone Jensen might go after. But if S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted the tycoon's daughter dead too, they could always kill her later. Resurrecting her would be harder. And if S.H.I.E.L.D. picked Dubrovskaya up, and she knew what Jensen wanted with her...

If it were a contact poison, the delivery would be easier than spiking a bottle of vodka-- and that ungloved bartender would probably be dead. Natasha had to hope she was right.

A big drunk man was coming up for a refill. She forced back the urge to  _run_ for help, waited, and tripped him at just the right moment. He fell heavily; the bar rocked; under guise of steadying him, she bumped the bottle of vodka into the trash. She heard it break.

The drunk man was angry, and the other guests were angry with him. Good cover. She moved towards the exit, making herself breathe evenly. She felt warm, which fed her panic, but maybe it was just the adrenaline.  _Dangerous positive feedback cycle_ .

A caterer cut across her path while dodging another drunk and instantly murmured an apology. That gave her the opening to stumble sideways to steps and brush against Jensen. If he noticed, he'd think the drug was working, or that she was making a pass at him. Either way, her exit would make sense.

She got out and ducked into the nearest bathroom-- the men's, luckily empty. If the poison hadn't been meant for her, they wouldn't look for her here first. She tapped her earpiece. “This is the Widow. I need extraction. I've been poisoned.”

She put her drink down carefully, bent over the toilet, and stuck her fingers down her throat until she threw up. Then she drank from the tap and did it again, and again. She was dizzy and her stomach hurt. That could have been from vomiting... or not. She drank more water, checked the hallway, and slipped out. She needed to  _get out of sight_ .

She took a wrong turn at the bottom of the stairs-- was her vision starting to blur?-- into the service corridors of the adjacent hotel. She tapped her earpiece again. “This is Black Widow calling Paris HQ. I need extraction. I've been poisoned by an unknown substance. I'm in the basement of the Hôtel Lyon.” If Jensen had jammed their comms--

How had she ended up dependent on other people for her survival? Natalia Romanova-- would have fought through the poison on her own.

A smooth, almost robotic voice came back with, “We are searching for available S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel.”

_Damn it._ Her legs buckled. She fell into a door and caught the handle to steady herself, but it swung open into a dark, nearly empty utility closet. The dust indicated it hadn't been used in a long time. Good. She locked the door, then made herself drink from the tap. Her stomach was definitely cramping now. She made herself vomit again, which just hurt more. She curled into the rescue position in case she passed out.

She fished in her little clutch for the phone she'd lifted from Jensen, and fumbled with it until it turned off. Couldn't have him tracking it, or wiping it, remotely.

She tried to stand but her legs were wobbly. How long did she have? Would the pain get worse before she died? How would she die? She was armed; she had the option of ending it on her own terms if it became too horrifying. But pain was a poor reason to die. You were never absolutely beyond hope until clinical brain death.

She tapped her earpiece a third time. If she died, they needed to know. “My target tried to murder Alexandra Dubrovskaya. Involved in oil. Possible... link to oil rig.” Her ears stopped working for a minute. She broke out in a cold sweat. She gasped for air to quell the nausea. She didn't have anything left in her stomach to throw up, so there was no point in doing it.

Her hearing returned. “-- Widow. Extraction is coming. Please give your precise location.”

She gave directions to the closet, still gasping.

“Black Widow?” The voice became less robotic. “Help will arrive shortly. Please don't die.”

She swallowed her groan.

“I--” The agent on comms had apparently never listened to someone dying before. “I'm supposed to keep talking but I don't know-- I, um, we're running our files on Ms. Dubrovskaya now, searching for the connection--”

“Pick her  _up_ ,” Natasha choked out.

“Uh-- yes, Agent-- yes, Agent Widow.”

A long time passed. Or a short time? She fell asleep and then woke up, her heart pounding. It had only been a second or two. Right? But she couldn't do that again. She might not wake up. Would not wake up. Her heart didn't stop pounding when the panic passed.

Footsteps outside the closet. They slowed, then stopped. She gripped her gun in two hands and leveled it at the door.

A sequence of knocks added up to a S.H.I.E.L.D. passcode. An old one, that Coulson had taught her. Then a low voice giving a verbal code. There was no reason that voice should be here. She'd lost it.

She lowered her gun, reached up, and unlocked the door. It took two tries. The strain made her shake. The door swung open. She blinked at the light, but it wasn't very bright; Fury nearly filled the doorway. If he was a hallucination, it was a bad sign that he was such a consistent one.

He was wearing a tux, not his trenchcoat. “Can you walk?”

She shook her head. The motion made everything spin. She picked up the glass in one hand, carefully. “What they. Gave me.”

She heard him pour the liquid into something plastic. She hoped he was being careful. If he wasn't, they were screwed, because Fury would stop being cautious when the world ended.

“If you carry me upside down,” she managed, “I'll throw up.”

“Noted.” He squatted, slid his arms under her shoulders and knees, and lifted her without obvious effort. She made sure all her weapons were out of sight. The motion of his walking jarred her. It took most of her effort not to throw up on him.

They got farther than she expected before being stopped by a suspicious hotel employee, demanding to know where he was taking her. Paris was not as egalitarian as its revolutionary mottoes proclaimed, and a black man carrying a young, impaired white woman out of a fancy hotel was conspicuous.

“I'm taking my stepdaughter home.” Fury's French was perfectly Parisian. “She was at the party in the other building. She's too young and foolish to swim with those sharks.  _Somebody_ \--” he sounded grim. “Put something in her drink. She managed to call me. I just want to keep it quiet.” Natasha's weight shifted as Fury reached into his pocket; paper crinkled. “I'd appreciate your help with that.”

“Stepdaughter?” The woman sounded skeptical.

Natasha raised her head a bit. “Papa?” she whined, plaintively.

Fury smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Shh, shh. It's all right. We'll get you home soon.”

The woman muttered that next time his girl might not want to dress in a way that implied she wanted to be devoured.

“ _Excuse me_ ?”

Even through her thickening haze, Natasha had to appreciate his impression of an outraged parent.

“Never mind! Good  _night_ ,” the woman said pointedly.

Fury muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath as they moved away. He walked down a long hallway. A door opened, then the cool night air woke her up a bit. “Don't die,” Fury warned her. “I had to apologize to an old family friend to come get you. If I walked out on her for nothing, I'm not going to be happy.”

She wanted to ask what kind of gatherings with 'old family friends' required tuxedoes, but she didn't have the energy to be sarcastic and difficult. God, she really  _was_ dying.

A taxi ride, then more walking. She didn't want to throw up on Fury's tux. She didn't want to throw up at all. Was it worth still hanging on and fighting?

_Yes_ . The answer came immediately from the dark corners of her mind. She had only  _gotten_ here by hanging on and fighting.

Walking. A door opened. But it wasn't a medical facility. Had Fury brought her somewhere out of the way where she could die without making an embarrassing mess for S.H.I.E.L.D. to clean up? Too late for her to do anything about it now.

_No._ She had to fight. Always fight--

He put her down on something soft, against something hard. Against a wall. She should open her eyes and get her bearings but she was drifting...

She made herself do it anyway. She was on a cot. The room held nothing else. After a minute Fury came in with a bottle. He stood over her and held it out. “I sent a sample of your drink to HQ. Until it comes back, you'll have to make do with this. S.H.I.E.L.D. all-purpose antidote.” When she didn't reach for it, he opened it. When she still didn't reach for it, he squatted on his heels and reached for her head like he was going to tilt it back. Reflexively, she knocked his hand away, hard.

He stayed very still, where he was. “If you can't take it yourself, I have to give it to you.”

She held out a hand. He put the bottle in it and didn't let go until she closed her fingers around it. She sniffed it. It smelled faintly plasticky. She raised it to her lips and tipped the contents down her throat.

It was a small bottle. She managed to get half of it in her mouth and swallow before the taste registered. She choked, pressing her lips together to keep from spitting anything out, and made herself swallow again. Some of it went into her nose and she coughed, the motion jarring already-pained stomach muscles.

Then the stuff hit her stomach. Her nausea doubled, tripled, and she slid sideways to a horizontal position. He'd grabbed the bottle so she didn't knock it over. She curled protectively around herself and concentrated on breathing. She was sweating.

“Heard that stuff's nasty,” he said after a minute. “Never knew how much until now.”

She knew it was as close to pity as he would get, and she appreciated that.

“The sooner you get the rest of that down, the better your chances become,” Fury said. “There's two more doses. You have to keep it all down, or they gotta pump your stomach.”

She made an incoherent noise of pain. Everything inside her torso seemed to be trying to exit violently through her mouth. She thought about the alternative-- strangers sticking tubes down her throat-- and wished she hadn't when it made her retch. But the image was motivation she needed to keep the damn stuff down.

She managed to put words together: “Side effects.”

“It basically flushes out your system.”

“Oh, God.”

“Also has a blocker for neurotoxins. It might take part of your voluntary nervous system out of commission temporarily. You'll feel pins and needles.”

She sank farther down into the cot and waited for him to go away.

She knew that if she finished the bottle she'd just throw it all up. Better to wait a little while for the rest and give it a chance of actually doing its job. All she could do was... wait. The time between each heartbeat seemed impossibly slow. This was going to be very long, and very unpleasant.

“Fury,” she muttered. No response. He was out of the room, maybe out of the apartment. She raised her hand and banged on the wall.

After a moment, footsteps. “What?”

She fumbled for her clutch, dug out the phone, and handed it to him. “Jensen's.”

He took it from her. “Huh.”

_You're welcome_ . She didn't have the energy to be snarky.

Fury went away. She spent five minutes gathering her willpower, then grabbed the bottle and tipped the rest into her mouth before she thought about it. And repeated the whole violent struggle to keep it down.

Fury came back holding two more bottles and put them by the cot. “What size do you wear, Agent Romanoff?”

It was refreshing that someone had to ask. When she told him, he brought her a bundle of cloth: “That dress doesn't look very comfortable for sweating out poison.”

_Very_ comfortable? Very  _comfortable?_ She couldn't help it; her defenses were down, and she didn't expend the effort to choke back the laugh. And then she laughed, and laughed, at Fury's uncharacteristic naiveté. He looked startled. It hurt, badly, to laugh, but it took her mind off the misery.

“I'll... leave you to that,” he muttered, and retreated out the door, pushing it mostly closed, while she was still snickering.

She wished she'd hung on to Jensen's phone for something to occupy her mind, besides thinking about how much she didn't want to die, vomit, or die vomiting. But if she had the brainpower for a thought like that, it was probably time for the next bottle. The antidote impressed her. It took a lot of pain and suffering to wear down a chi-- a  _product_ of the Red Room, to the point she was at now.

She choked the next half bottle down, nearly spat it out, but managed to keep her mouth closed until she could force herself to swallow. She remembered the clothes Fury had brought. It would take energy to put them on. Was it worth it? It would distract her from the extreme discomfort... and getting the double-sided tape off her breasts was worth a good deal of discomfort on its own.

She struggled to get out of the crimson fabric-trap without having to sit up. Then she managed to reclothe her lower half while staying horizontal. Finally she sat up to put the rest on, and wiped the cold sweat off her face. She couldn't face any more antidote yet. She slumped back down and closed her eyes.

“You can't sleep, Agent Romanoff. If you sleep before it's out of your system, you'll probably die.”

She hadn't even heard Fury come back. Was she that out of it? Or could he move more quietly than even she had expected? “I'm just resting my eyes.”

He snorted, but left her alone.

She cracked her eyes open and stared at the bottle. If she stared hard enough, could she force the liquid level down by willpower alone? In the background, Fury was on a conference call with voices she didn't recognize-- Blake, maybe? If she could process that, then she was coming back to her surroundings. Did that mean the antidote was working?

She grimly finished the half-bottle and slumped down on the cot, curled up in the fetal position.  _Oh, God._ The Red Room had trained them never to complain about pain, but after this, she would never even  _notice_ her worst menstrual cramps again. She breathed deeply, and waited for the discomfort to pass.

Something  _cold_ in her face-- she spluttered and forced herself to a sitting position, going for her gun before she opened her eyes to see Fury with a half-empty glass of water. 

She spat out a string of curses. He looked unimpressed. “I told you, you can't sleep.”

She growled something in Russian. She couldn't really blame him. Odds were good she'd have tried to hurt him, just off of reflex, if he'd actually touched her.

He looked amused. “What did my mother ever do to you?”

She held up her hand for the glass. When he gave it to her, she swirled the water around in her mouth, then cautiously swallowed it. It didn't noticeably increase her nausea. She took another swallow.

“I'm told it's a good sign if you're getting thirsty.”

She threw caution to the wind and drained the rest of the small cup, because she  _was_ getting thirsty, and it took the abominable taste out of her mouth. That alone made her feel a little less nauseous.

“I have to go. I, or someone, will be back for you. Stay awake. Try not to die before we get here.”

“I'd be desolated to disappoint you,” she whispered. She slumped back against the wall.

The outer door opened, then closed, leaving her alone with the last bottle of hell. She eyed it balefully. Then she growled. She'd faced down everything else and come through, improbably, impossibly, alive and intact. She was a  _medical miracle_ , wasn't she? She wrenched off the top with more force than necessary and drank a third of the last bottle.

The disgusting taste, and the way it seized her guts in a vice, took the defiance out of her. But she was still going to finish this damned stuff. Her legs were falling asleep. She shifted to a different position, but that didn't help. Oh.  _Pins and needles_ . She was losing control of her body now.

The thought was horrifying. At least... she was alone, when she was this vulnerable. Company would have been terrifying. She slid off the cot. She crawled towards the small bathroom, bringing the loathsome antidote along. She slumped against the wall, facing the toilet, so that if she ended up paralyzed, she wouldn't have to lie in her own vomit.

There was... probably one exception to the terrible-with-company rule. Perhaps even two. But they weren't here, so there was no point in dwelling on it.

She tried to drain the rest of the bottle, choked, and nearly spit it all over herself. She settled for swallowing half of what was left. Then she discovered exactly what Fury had meant when he said,  _Flushes out your system_ . Her legs worked well enough still to get her onto the toilet, which she did not take for granted. She curled her arms around her torso and waited with grim resignation. She ground her teeth and thought of all the things the Red Room had done to her that had been worse. Cold comfort-- but she'd gotten through those.

When her GI tract's mutiny paused, she drained the rest of the bottle in a fit of second-wind foolhardiness. The resulting nausea made her eyes water, but she threw the empty bottle viciously, as hard as she could, out the door. It hit something in the dark room and went  _clonk_ on the ground. She was losing some feeling in her arms. But her legs still worked, a little erratically. 

When the internal ravages let her get up from the toilet, she hit the light switch. No point giving away her location if someone came in. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light coming in the high, small window.

Her guts quieted down.  _It's over_ .  _Over._ She repeated it to herself. All she could do now was stay awake and keep drinking water to replace what she'd lost. And enjoy being less nauseous. And wait to see if the antidote had worked.

She tried counting her breaths, but lost track around two hundred forty.

The outer door opened. She picked up her gun. No footsteps. “Agent Romanoff?” Fury called quietly.

She couldn't be sure he was alone and uncoerced until she heard him come in alone.

The lights went on in the room. He crossed it quickly, heading towards the bedroom. The door shut behind him: he was alone. “In here.”

He turned his head quickly. “Congratulations on surviving.”

“Thank you.”

He held up a small bottle. “Paris HQ sent this. They identified the poison; this is the antidote.”

She looked at it without enthusiasm. “Is it going to be as terrible as the other three bottles?”

“You finished those?”

“You said the sooner I got them down, the more likely I was to live.”

“I'm impressed. That stuff has a reputation as being awful and I don't think anyone's ever taken it all that quickly. Not even Agent Coulson.”

“Coulson?”

“He took a poisoned blowdart meant for the secretary of state.” He gave her the bottle. “They said the side effects should be harmless.”

She looked at it warily. Then she shrugged, opened it, sniffed it, and tipped the contents down her throat.

It was nearly tasteless, which was a very welcome change. She barely noticed when it hit her stomach, and--

She stiffened, back arching. Her entire body was on fire.  _How_ could it work that quickly? She flushed all over, sweating.

“Agent Romanoff?” Fury was considerably nearer than he had been-- close enough to touch. But not touching.

“Fine,” she gasped out. “I'm fine.” The burning started to recede, starting from the tips of her fingers and toes. It prickled painfully in her eyes. “I just need to make a dictionary with sixty thousand copies of the definition of “harmless” and club R&D with it ten or twelve times.”

Fury looked amused. “We picked up Dubrovskaya. Once we told her what happened, she was very cooperative. From what she told us, it seems Jensen is trying to tunnel into the earth's crust to plant a device capable of sending self-replicating mining nanobots throughout the world.”

She looked at him in mute disbelief.

“Mm-hmm,” he agreed. “Agent Coulson is on his way to the oil rig with a small recon team. I'm going to Bergen with reinforcements, getting a strike force ready to go. I can leave you at Paris, but I'd like you at Bergen with Logistics to consult remotely, if you're up to it. ”

“How long before the strike force goes?”

“About twenty-four hours.”

“Who's leading it?”

“Not you.”

She scowled at him. “Not why I asked.”

“I'm not sure. All my best people are out of commission or busy.”

Her stomach roiled, reminding her that she wasn't done with this misery yet. “Give me a bucket for the flight to Bergen, and I'll be there.”

In the time it took Fury to take care of the rest of the logistical details, she managed to put on a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform and get some weapons. The effort of walking to the car, then across the tarmac and onto the plane, was much more taxing than she would have liked. It was bad enough that when Fury talked to the squad leader for a minute, then caught her eye and pointed to a stack of stuff, she didn't protest or ask questions when she discovered the cot set up behind the protective shelter of the crates. She didn't need to be suspicious of anyone's ulterior motives. She'd just nearly died, and in a better world, wouldn't move for another twenty-four hours. This was the least they could do for her.

She remembered another flight from Paris, on a plane full of S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers, and was tired enough to be  _sentimental_ about it.  _I_ want Clint. That was ridiculous; he wasn't a teddy bear or a safety blanket, and she had been trained to stand alone and not need either--

_Oh, shut up_ . She was too tired for the usual cycle of worry about vulnerability. She fell asleep.

*

She woke up to the plane bucking. Turbulence or enemy fire?

She staggered to her feet. At least her wobbling was mostly due to the turbulence. The heavy boxes around her cot were showing signs of shifting. She escaped before they could squash her, and found Fury. He was just behind the cockpit, at the plane's command station, staring at two radar screens and a video link, scowling ferociously.

She listened: not being fired on, maybe taking evasive action, could just be the atmosphere. “What's going on?”

“Coulson called for emergency reinforcements while we were over Amsterdam,” Fury said. “We weren't close enough. A small team from Bergen went. It wasn't enough. Jensen has reinforcements of his own coming in, but Coulson's still refusing the evac order.” He scowled. “He won't say why over the channel. I don't like that.”

“That's sensible if he's concerned Jensen's men can listen in,” she pointed out.

“Also a convenient excuse for an ambush.”

“Coulson would die before he'd sell you out.”

Fury looked at her, somber. “Agent Coulson is just a man, Agent Romanoff. All people are vulnerable.”

_If he wanted to betray you, he's had far better opportunities than this._ But she let it go. “What are we doing?”

“We're landing and reinforcing the agents down there. Our priority is to get our people out, then to take and hold the rig.  _You_ are staying with the plane and going back to Bergen with the wounded.”

“I thought you wanted me with the team.”

“I wanted you for tactical advice, not for stumbling around an active battlefield being a liability.” He gave her a sideways look. “Give it a rest, Agent Romanoff. You're good at what you do, not Superwoman. I don't have time for you to question my orders.”

“What can I do before we land?”

“You know anything possibly useful about Jensen, brief the strike team.”

Maybe she did; the way some of his men had moved at the party reminded her of a very specific school of fighting. Maybe Jensen was actively hiring people with a certain background, or maybe he'd just happened to hire a group that had worked together; either way, chances were decent that people on the rig had the same training. With their captain's permission, she gave the soldiers a very abbreviated version of the likely strengths and weaknesses of their enemy.

The pilot ordered them to strap in as she took what was, unmistakably, evasive action. Natasha sat as far from the door as possible to stay out of the way. There were explosions nearby. The soldiers closest to the door were readying some kind of shoulder-mounted artillery.

The bottom fell out of her stomach as the plane dropped fast. The door started to open. They landed suddenly with a hard jolt. The soldier closest to the door dove through on her stomach, already firing; the man with the second launcher was close behind. The rest of the soldiers cleared off as quickly.

Fury went with them. Two soldiers stayed behind; as soon as the rest were clear, they darted out and started loading the wounded. Well, that was something she could do. She unstrapped and hurried down the ramp.

Outside, she got her first look at the scene. There was a raging gun battle on the deck of the oil rig. Helicopters of several models were circling on the other side of the platform, firing at something she couldn't see. Four S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers were kneeling near the ramp, keeping them away from the vulnerable plane with a withering hail of rocket fire. In the scant shelter of some cargo pallets and a tin roof, one medic was frantically patching up a disturbing number of wounded. She darted across the gap and started tugging the nearest pallet towards the plane.

“How soon are reinforcements coming?” she shouted to the pilot, pulling the unconscious soldier to where he'd be out of the way.

“We are the reinforcements!”

_Fantastic_ .

She went for another soldier. Out in the ocean, a large boat was heading for the rig. From this distance, she could barely make out the armed people inside. She loaded another soldier, then another. It was not at all unlikely that all the S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel here were going to die. How ironic, that she might survive because she was just past death herself.

_I can't-- I can't just_ leave _Coulson_ to die--

A much smaller boat streaked out from under the platform at what looked like full throttle. Two of the helicopters immediately broke off to follow. The rest stayed-- were there more S.H.I.E.L.D. forces down there? Whoever was driving the boat was damn good-- the helicopters were laying down heavy fire, but the little boat slewed past it all like it was dancing through the waves. A line of fire streaked out from the back of the boat. One helicopter went up, the other went down... right into the second line of fire, launched almost as soon as the first. Direct hit. The explosion rocked the helicopter, taking it dangerously close to the water. Then it was out of her line of sight and she couldn't see what happened to it.

She grabbed the last casualty and towed her towards the plane. One of the two soldiers who'd been loading the wounded grabbed the pallet, hurrying backwards up the ramp. The ramp started closing as soon as his feet touched it. Her surprise cost her the precious second when she might've been able to dive through the narrowing gap without landing on the unconscious soldier.  _SHIT!_ “HEY!”

The hatch closed without pausing.

A bullet came too close. She ran for cover as the plane took off. She crouched near the tower that rose hundreds of feet up. Probably some drilling equipment. Or maybe Jensen had had it installed specially to help him take over the world. 

What was S.H.I.E.L.D. hoping to accomplish here? Coulson had refused to pull out or say why. Where was Coulson?

_There_ . Fury had found him, and they were standing back-to-back, each covering a different half of the pavement near the long, low building. It looked like they were guarding the door. Whatever Coulson's reason for staying, apparently Fury agreed. No one was going anywhere for a while.

She watched the back-and-forth of the shots.  _If_ the helicopters stayed inexplicably out of the game, and  _if_ Fury and Coulson had a definite endgame, they might make it. But once that boat arrived, they were screwed. She could tell, from Fury's and Coulson's expressions, that they knew the same thing. They had that look on their faces that said, “We're going to die together and we're going to take as many of them with us as we can.” She knew that look. She'd  _worn_ that look.

She couldn't do anything about it from here. The boat had more soldiers than she had ammo, and they probably had body armor. She was good, but not that good.

Fury laid down covering fire for Coulson to dive into the building. She'd been wrong, before, when she'd thought she was going to die. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe they did have a plan. But she hadn't lived this long by sitting around waiting for other people to take care of problems. If she couldn't do anything about that boat from here, then it was time to move. About ten feet in the other direction was a discarded men's jacket, dark grey camo, and a rifle, placed like the previous owner had gone over the side. She looked at it, and had the beginnings of an idea.

The tower was just a steel skeleton with a couple of long cables running its length and disappearing into the floor, and a long metal rod suspended on smaller metal pieces. It narrowed towards the tiny platform at the top. A small elevator-- just a large, open box-- rested on the deck, but someone had shot through the cables to keep the other side from gaining that tactical advantage. If there was a backup ladder, she couldn't see it from here.

_Well._

She started to climb the tower. The beams were not meant to be climbed. At least no one would expect her at the top. Her muscles ached; her stomach in particular ached from vomiting, every time she reached up for the next hold, every time she pushed herself up another foot, every time she moved. She wanted to stop hurting. She wanted to stop moving. She wanted to curl up and sleep for twenty-four hours, until she hurt less.

If she got sloppy, she could “sleep” until her corpse disintegrated.

The tower shook. She nearly lost her grip and plummeted to her death. The whole  _platform_ was shaking. The sensation seemed to go straight through her bones. It lasted about five seconds, then stopped. Then another five seconds, then nothing.  _What?_

The S.H.I.E.L.D. gunners took down one of the helicopters. That left five. Two of them came near. She slipped around the strut and hoped she was out of sight. They flew on without stopping. She gambled on the vibrations being gone for now, and kept going. Were they what was causing the underwater noises? Was that what Coulson had gone after?

By the time the helicopters came back around, she was near the top. She sheltered below the little platform, where she'd be harder to spot. The lead helicopter hovered, probably trying to set the gunner up for a tricky shot at someone in good cover on the deck. It was out of range of pistol fire from the deck.

She wasn't on the deck.

The helicopter turned, presenting her with the open door as the gunner aimed below. She shot the pilot in the head.

The helicopter plummeted towards the water. The second helicopter slewed around, searching for the source of the attack, and turned its own open door to her. She took a risk on a wild shot. The first only hit the windshield, but the second hit the pilot. Not a nice neat headshot, but at this altitude, the co-pilot wouldn't have the time to recover. He didn't. The second followed the first one down.

_Good_ . She was surprised at how pleased she felt. She'd evened the odds. Not decisively, but not nothing. Now if she could just take down the  _other_ three, and somehow take out the boat while she was at it--

Two of the helicopters-- bigger, carrying troops-- came in fast and low. She flattened herself against the underside of the platform. Ropes dropped, and more people started sliding down onto the deck.  _Shit_ . Had she just delivered more enemies right where S.H.I.E.L.D. needed them least?

She held herself in place with burning arms and legs. Everything  _hurt_ . But being dead was painless; she hurt because she was alive. She scanned the pavement below to make sure no one down there had seen her. One lucky sniper could ruin her day. 

Speaking of ruining days, ropes went two ways.

She had to time it perfectly or she would die. As the troops reached the deck, she swung herself up onto the platform, jumped as high as she could, and grabbed the rope as the helicopter ascended. She had to trust that the helicopters were empty besides the crew, that everyone below was too busy to shoot at an unidentified and hard-to-hit target--

Someone turned in her direction. She dangled precariously from one hand and shot back with the other. Then she was at the top. She scrambled over the pontoon, grabbed the edge of the open door with both hands and flipped over the side, ready to fight— but there were no fighters left in the helicopter. If there had been, they probably would have shot her on the way up.

She shoved through the gap between the seats, counting on the element of surprise and the tight spaces. She slashed open the co-pilot’s neck before she could react; the other woman would be dead soon. Natasha turned to the pilot-- he had his gun out— she closed with him before he could use it, feinted with her knife, got a hold to break his wrist, and then did the same with his neck.

She leaned awkwardly over the bodies and pulled up as fast as she could. When she had some breathing altitude, she shoved the bodies aside and sat down, putting the mic set on. The crew hadn't made a distress call. She put the helicopter back on its original course, looping around towards the other side-- towards that big boat.

One of the other helicopters was circling around to support the soldiers still searching the tower for the mysterious assailant who’d dropped two of their choppers— or were they— she went up higher. That was a tiny boat that had just launched from the other side of the rig— dammit, the last S.H.I.E.L.D. wounded were just now getting away?

Couldn’t do anything about that right now. The radio crackled— someone talking to the dead crew, demanding their status. She had to make her move. The sensible thing would have been to call for another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to help... but she didn't have an earpiece, because she hadn't intended to stay.

She could put the helicopter on a crash course toward the big boat, but she'd die with it-- the blades would shred her if she tried to jump out. She couldn't shoot. All she had were a couple mini-grenades, not big enough to sink that boat. What else could she turn into a weapon?

Something narrowly missed the windshield. She checked the scopes, then checked below. It was the S.H.I.E.L.D. boat, trying to shoot her down. Were they crazy, trying to take down a helicopter with— what did they have— pistols? Doing stupid things with helicopters was  _her_ job.

The second helicopter was coming her way-- because they couldn't raise her on the radio? She climbed as fast as she could. Someone came over the radio, clearly demanding her status. The co-pilot had been female-- Natasha said something garbled and unintelligible, and made sure that “Damaged” was the only clear word.

The second helicopter had started to climb after her. Now they stopped. She dropped down fast, coming as close as she dared--

They dropped, scrambling out of the way. Angry words came over the radio. She rocked the chopper, making it look like she barely had it under control-- gained more altitude-- dropped towards them again--

They were getting closer to the boat. “Clear off, can't hold it--”

Where was the last helicopter? Harassing the S.H.I.E.L.D. boat. They were unintentionally buying her time, but how long could they survive? If that helicopter landed on the water--

The helicopter she was targeting, after a second, started flying away-- in the direction of the boat. She pulled up-- the timing had to be perfect-- and got into position, matching their retreat. She grabbed the first mini-grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it through the door into their rotors.

She pulled up and away hard as soon as she made the throw. Had it just bounced off--

The rotors erupted in flame. Her helicopter rocked. The gunner on the other chopper was going for her.  _Shit_ . She took evasive action-- They were dropping, but--

She risked the fire, matched their speed, which was dangerously fast, and tossed the second mini-grenade. She nearly lost control herself, between the smoke and the concussions, before she got clear. The second explosion had done it; the helicopter dropped, flaming, in a neat arc that would end--

The soldiers on the deck of the big boat scrambled away. A couple of them managed to dive overboard. Then the helicopter hit.

The fuel tank on the boat caught almost immediately. The explosion ballooned out of control. The sudden updraft rocked her. She fought with the controls to get some distance. The hit, or near-miss, had damaged something. The controls were becoming sluggish. She was going to be a sitting duck as soon as the last helicopter figured out what had happened.

She was back to being stuck in the cockpit-- unless she could land. She didn't know how many of Jensen's people had artillery-- or would think to use it against their own craft-- but she had to risk it. She didn't have nearly enough experience to rightfully try this. When had that ever mattered?

She killed the rotors and went down, slowly, as close to the tower's superstructure as she could safely glide. She still hit the water hard. The rotors were still rotating too fast for comfort, but she didn't want to stay here long.

She abandoned the controls and dropped out of the open door, hanging onto the pontoon.  _Fuck_ \-- the water was  _cold--_

She dove under the chopper. The current was harsh. She grabbed onto whatever bits she could reach to anchor herself and came up the other side, close to the platform. The waves bounced her up and down and up and down-- they would kill her if they slammed her into the platform's columns.

The last airborne helicopter was still occupied with the S.H.I.E.L.D. boat. Why was it still there? She could make out the pilot, two soldiers, and three wounded lying in the bottom— one of the wounded was unconscious, but the other four who weren’t piloting were all aiming up. They were  _firing_ , in synch— yeah, the pilot’s lips were moving, he must be calling out orders. Were they insane? Or did they just have a good angle on the last helicopter?

Whatever they were doing, it wasn’t enough to take down the chopper, and they couldn't take the fire for long. The pilot wrenched the wheel around— and headed straight from the gap between two struts, to take shelter  _under_ the platform. Was he  _fucking_ insane? They might barely fit, if they didn’t wreck on the submerged structure, but that brought them  _closer_ to the high waves from the wonderful mess she’d caused—

She finally managed to reach out and grab a metal strut as the rough waves lifted her. She held on, then grabbed the next strut up; she needed to get out of the way of the water. She wrenched an arm that had already taken too much abuse in the past twenty-four hours. And now that she was out of the water, the wind would chill her dangerously and quickly.  _Story of your life, Romanoff, whine more_ .

She had a grappling hook collapsed in her pocket. She dug it out with one hand, fixed it as high up as she could reach, and improvised a makeshift harness. Then she started to climb.

The metal was smooth and slippery, and the spacing had not been designed for easy infiltration. It was even worse than the tower up top. There was one larger concrete column, about the size of a small van, that would be easier to climb, but it was in the very center of the platform. The smell of burning oil and gas filled her nostrils, and the heat made her sweat, loosening her grip. At least the fire was keeping her from going numb. Almost every muscle in her body burned as she lunged and hauled herself up, again and again, resetting the hook each time.

Halfway up, she stopped to rest. Good timing-- the platform started vibrating again, this time without pauses, for about three minutes. She just crouched on the strut, catching her breath, letting some of the pain ease out of her muscles. She was desperately thirsty, and now that she wasn't moving, she started to shiver.

The little cigarette boat sharing her refuge hadn’t noticed her. The helicopter was trying to shoot at them from the other side, but were having trouble getting low enough to get a good angle. The boat eased closer to the burning wreck— if more fuel went up, they would have trouble escaping the explosion— as if deliberately daring the helicopter to try to attack them from that side. She thought she knew what the pilot was trying to do— if the chopper did come around from that angle, it risked getting caught in the updraft from the fire and losing control. It was a long shot, but quick thinking.

From the top of the superstructure, it was a long lunge to get to the platform itself. The first time she missed it. Thanks to the grappling hook, she only jarred her ribs instead of falling a more damaging distance. She caught her breath, exhaling away her impatience at her weakness, and tried again. She got it on the second try and pulled herself through the bars onto the concrete.

The last helicopter was still hovering, trying to snipe at the cigarette boat; no one left alive on the burning boat would be in a position to shoot at her. A low building separated her from the rest of the platform, and the firefight that was still going on. She slumped against the wall and listened to the gunfire. The platform vibrated. All S.H.I.E.L.D. had to do was mop up on the deck and take care of that other helicopter. They could do that.

But the two helicopters had dropped more troops because of her. And she had no idea how many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were left. She took stock of her body. Was anything actually debilitating? No— but she needed to be careful. She’d be running on emergency reserves soon, instead of just the reserves she’d been using ever since drinking that poison. But the Red Room had taught her to persevere at all costs, to push through her limits in the face of any pain.

She didn't think anyone from S.H.I.E.L.D. knew the little boat was down there. If it was a S.H.I.E.L.D. boat. It could be an elaborate trap, like she'd set for the other helicopters, but that seemed unlikely-- they'd shot at her, and they hadn't known any better than the other helicopters that she wasn't really one of Jensen's. She needed to let someone know they needed help-- except S.H.I.E.L.D. probably didn't have anyone to spare. So, really, she needed to get them some help herself.

They needed something that could take down that helicopter. She eased around the edge of the building. More buildings ahead, and probably some people sheltering in between, but nobody on this end. She crept past— there were people holed up at the other end of the narrow corridor, but their backs were to her, and she couldn't tell if they were S.H.I.E.L.D. or not. She darted across the corridor, and flattened her back across the wall. She didn't see anything that looked like artillery. How long would it take to search all the buildings?

To the other side of the platform was a long dash with sparse cover. She was wearing what Jensen's people were wearing, so they wouldn't shoot her. As long as she was running  _away_ , S.H.I.E.L.D. probably wouldn't waste time with her either. Except maybe Fury, because he was a suspicious bastard like that, but she had to hope Fury would recognize her before pulling the trigger. If he were still alive.

She wouldn’t bet otherwise any time soon.

The body of one of Jensen's people was nearby. She hauled it closer, took the helmet and the rifle, and sprinted for the cluster of buildings at the other end of the platform.

The helicopter was still hovering off the end of the platform, and the wind buffeted her hair. She couldn't climb the tower again, and she wouldn't have been able to dive past the rotors in any case. But the crew hadn't seen her, yet.

She dashed out like she were being chased, firing a few shots behind her that ricocheted harmlessly off the tower. She skidded to a stop and lowered her rifle. The pilot saw her-- Natasha gestured wildly, tapping the side of her helmet. The pilot frowned, but came closer, hovering just off the edge of the platform. The gunner balanced near the door. “What is it?” he shouted.

She wasn't sure she could jump again. She tensed, and made the leap anyway. She barreled into the gunner-- he was heavier than he looked, and momentum didn't take her as far as she'd hoped--

Natasha finally got a good hit into the gunner’s solar plexus, and shoved past him while he took a gasping breath. But he grabbed her around the knees and brought her to the ground, crushing her with his greater weight. She went for his eyes. He reared back, one hand instinctively raised in front of his face. She took advantage of the opening, grabbed his arm, forced him up, and landed a knee in his ribs. It didn’t have much impact, but it gave her another second to drop his arm, grab his gun from its holster, and shoot him in the head. He slumped.

She struggled out from under the corpse, saw movement, but didn't duck fast enough. The pilot’s knife slashed across her right shoulder instead of sticking in her heart.  _Shit!_ She grabbed her own knife with her left hand-- and lunged-- and now she had to  _move_ , because the pilot was dead.

She shoved the corpse out of the way as best as she could. Damn it, her arm  _hurt_ . She leveled out and got into a hover, somehow, channeling Clint or just being lucky. She couldn't do much more than hover, any more, but she'd neutralized the threat  _and_ kept the helicopter intact. If there were some way they could use it to end the fight— but if she couldn’t even fly straight, she sure couldn’t shoot.

However.

_If I'd thought of this half an hour ago my life would have been a lot easier._ She eased down and found the cigarette boat, in the dark water below. It was a careful balancing act to stay in the air while undoing the restraints and pushing the helicopter pilot’s body out of the seat. Then she tilted the chopper and managed to push with her foot until the corpse started moving. The bodies slid out. She waved a salute to the boat’s pilot, wincing as her shoulder throbbed, and waited until he hesitantly returned it. Then she brought the chopper down for a landing-- better than her first one-- and hoped he would come out and not shoot.

If she were him, she’d suspect a trap. But part of the fight should have been visible to the people on the boat. She pointed to the boat, then to her seat. The pilot had a quick conversation with one of the soldiers. The boat eased forward some more. All the guns in the boat were trained on her. They could kill her at this distance, if one of them got the right angle through the door, like she had.

One of the soldiers climbed out of the boat and clung to the support strut. He made the leap to the next one, and then again, which put him on the edge of the platform. He vanished from her view, but the helicopter rocked. If this was an elaborate trap on  _Jensen's_ part, it would spring now--

She twisted to look behind her: the soldier was wriggling inside. “Hi,” he shouted.

She rolled her eyes. “I hope you can fly this thing!”

“Sweetheart, I can fly this thing better than you could ever dream.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

It took careful maneuvering to get him into the seat and her out of it. He frowned at her shoulder. She looked down and saw that her uniform had pulled apart; the blood running down from the cut had turned her arm solid red. “You’ve been flying like that?”

_Really?_ “No, I stabbed myself as you came aboard. Take us up and around!” She stretched out beside the gun, tried not to jar her shoulder, winced when she jarred it anyway, and fastened the restraints around her legs. Who was she kidding? Her dominant arm was out of commission, and every time she moved the right side of her body, she wanted to throw up. But the Red Room had trained her to be nearly as good with her other arm. And she had a powerful gun and the altitude to use it. That was two more pluses than the soldiers on the platform below had.

She could only make careful shots, and not many. Better to miss than to hit her own people. She thought she saw the top of Fury’s head, but she didn’t see Coulson anywhere. But S.H.I.E.L.D. was  _winning_ . Unless Jensen had more reinforcements to spring on them, it was over.

She slumped against the interior bulkhead and tried not to pass out. No more shooting. She just...  _couldn't. How about that_ .  _I_ do _have limits._

The gunfire went on for a long time. The helicopter bounced. More reinforcements? If someone was going after them... she needed to work the gun again... She needed to...

Finally the soldier-- the pilot-- took them down to the deck. “Hey,” he called. “Are you alive?”

She forced her eyes open and wiggled the fingers connected to her good arm. S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers were coming out of cover, tending the wounded, searching the platform, and guarding prisoners. She should get out of the helicopter. Could she stand? Did she  _really_ need to move?

This sudden debilitation was frightening-- her body collapsing as soon as it had the opportunity. Was it a side effect of the poison, or had she just done too much too fast?  _Or both._

She'd survived. Again. Sort out all the details later.

Coulson came out of the building. He looked worse than before. His face was bloody, his coat was gone, and his pants were singed. He was holding a small grey box, wires trailing like he'd yanked it out. Could she stand? She made it to her feet, took three ambitious steps out of the helicopter, staggered forward on momentum, and stopped against a pile of debris. Her shoulder, jarred, burned freshly.

Coulson stared. “Natasha, what are you  _doing_ here?”

“Killing helicopters.” She paused. “You're welcome.”

His frown deepened. He squatted. “Where are you hurt?”

She started to laugh. At his face she laughed more, and probably would have kept laughing if it hadn't hurt so much. He reached forward to check her limbs. She shook her head. “Just the shoulder.”

The pilot climbed out. “So. You hijacked a helicopter?”

“No, I hijacked...” She tried to count. “Two?”

She finally saw Fury, coming towards Coulson. She saw him see her. She wasn't  _afraid_ of him, that was ridiculous-- but the only reason she didn't put some strategic distance between them was because she didn't have the energy.

He turned to Coulson first.

“Neutralized.” Coulson held up the grey box. “Took us too long to get down there. But we'll be able to learn a lot from this.”

Fury took it and examined it carefully, frowning. “Excellent work, Agent Coulson.”

“Thank you, Director.”

Fury looked past Coulson at her. “Agent Romanoff, I ordered you to stay on the plane. It was a  _direct order_ .” This was beyond irritation.

“I was loading the wounded. They left without me. It  _wasn't_ my idea.” She swallowed another laugh, because the thought of voluntarily being  _here_ when she could have been sleeping somewhere--

_Cool the incipient hysteria._

Fury just shook his head, and turned towards the pilot. “Jasons, what are  _you_ doing still here?”

“The last boat, sir, it’s below.”

“What?”

“We didn’t think we could get away safely with the helicopters. So we tried to distract them instead, keep them out of the fight.”

Fury frowned. “Why are you all wet?”

“I was pretending to lay charges in the superstructure,” he said. “We figured it would keep their attention. And it did. But I slipped a couple of times.”

Fury stared at him.

“We'll get the worst wounded out on the helicopter,” Fury said after a minute. He looked her up and down. “Nice... catch, Agent Romanoff.” He started to say something else, and just shook his head. Again.

“Sir,” Jasons said, “Peregrine One is down below with the boat. He could give these people a lot smoother ride than I could.”

“I  _also_ ordered--” Fury swallowed the rest of that growl. “Do it. Fast. How bad are the wounded on the boat?”

“Stable. That’s why we left them for last.”

She drifted away from the conversation. If there were any enemy snipers unaccounted for, she'd be easy pickings. She watched, just in case.

Coulson talked to lots of people in sequence. He came over with a med kit and knelt beside her, still talking into his earpiece. He shook some pills into her good hand. She pulled away and stared at them. Then at the bottle in his hand. The pills had come out of the bottle. The bottle had come out of the kit. Right? She'd seen him take it out. There was the slot that held it. Was that enough assurance?

Coulson raised his eyebrows. She didn't feel like explaining her new paranoia about ingesting things. She just took the pills. If she couldn't trust Coulson...

He bandaged her shoulder. She was so tired she didn’t stop herself from making pained noises. She ignored his concerned expression. Across the deck, Jasons had returned, with a slender, wiry, attractive dark-haired man who hurried towards the chopper. She recognized him-- the boat's pilot.

Coulson had left. The new man came over to her. “Nice moves with the helicopter.”

“Thanks.”

He squatted. “I’m Jim Cho. Peregrine One.”

“Natasha Romanoff. Black Widow.”

His eyebrows went up. “You’re not what I expected.”

“What’d you expect, more upright, less bleeding?”

He grinned. “No, all the stories make you out to be about ten feet tall, with four extra arms for extra weapons, capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound, and eating men for breakfast.”

“Only if I’m really hungry.” Which she was, actually-- her nausea had finally settled, and everything she'd done had made her ravenous. “Shouldn't there be four more of you?”

“Conrad got out with the load of wounded before mine. The other three are on another mission.”

She'd thought they always worked together, but it made sense that fighter pilot commandoes would be in high demand.

“You’re partners with Barton, right? Strike Team Delta?”

“Yes...”

“We've been trying to recruit him ever since Munich.”

Natasha stared at him.

“First we just asked him, and he said no,” Cho said, “and then we tried to poach him from Coulson.”

Natasha looked at him with her best deadly deadpan. “You tried to take my partner?” She let her voice go low and dangerous.

His eyes widened. She hid her smile as he spluttered for a response--

Fury came up behind Cho before he could answer. “You hung around with a boatload of wounded to play chicken with seven helicopters, and she did so many stupid things I don't want to know about them. I’m not sure I want you talking. It might start a positive feedback loop of self-destruction.”

Cho had grinned unrepentantly at Fury’s first words, but his expression grew serious. “Sir, in my opinion, it was not safe to try to get away. The other boats made it before the helicopters arrived. That was why I made the call I did.”

“And you didn’t try very hard, did you?”

“What we did was no more dangerous than a run across the open water, sir-- where we would have had to fight the helicopters anyway. This way we had cover.”

Fury folded his arms across his chest. “So you pretended to be laying charges?”

“It worked. They decided we were the greatest threat, and we kept their attention.”

Fury gave him an unimpressed look.

Coulson came up. “You’re ready to go, Agent Cho.”

Cho straightened up, saluted Fury, and jogged over to the helicopter. The blades slowly started spinning. Finally Cho took them up with a lighter touch than she could have managed even with two good arms. She slumped back against the debris, wriggled back until she was flush with the side of the building, and closed her eyes.

_… wasn't that the helicopter that the wounded were supposed to be on?_

_Oops._

She heard people moving around her. Another aircraft came. Everything hurt. Her shoulder hurt worst, but her muscles ached too. If she didn't stretch, she'd be painfully immobile tomorrow. She hurt too badly to stretch.

She opened her eyes and sat up. Fury was standing not too far, hands on his hips, supervising... something. Coulson joined him. “The platform is secure. The team has everything they need to stay until they're relieved.”

“Good.”

“Are you waiting for the next transport?”

Fury considered. “What happened to the boat Cho was driving?”

“It's down below.”

“I'll take that. It might actually be faster.”

“Mind if I ride along, sir?”

“No, you,” Fury started to say, then turned, and saw her. He strode forward, looking completely out of patience with her. “Agent Romanoff, why the  _hell_ are you still  _here_ ? You can't even stand!”

“That's... why.” It didn't come out very coherently, but at least she swallowed the accompanying giggle. She braced her good hand against the debris to try to stand. Coulson offered her a hand up. She let him half-pull her to her feet-- then her legs buckled. Her hand slipped out of his. She plopped on the concrete with an impact that made her groan. At least there weren't many witnesses.

Coulson looked unhappy. He knelt on her uninjured side and pulled her arm across his shoulders. “You're coming with us.” She managed to get her legs to work in tandem with his, and rose shakily to her feet, much of her weight on Coulson.

“Agent Coulson!”

Coulson turned to look at the soldier who wanted his attention. “Go.” Fury’s voice, behind her. He took Coulson’s spot; he was enough taller than Coulson that she couldn’t really keep her arm across his shoulders. He’d already had to  _carry_ her; she abandoned dignity and just leaned against him. He didn’t even shift.

“I used to wonder,” Fury said, “why Coulson, who was handling one of the most successful strike teams in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s history and should be  _pleased_ , usually had this Look on his face. I don’t wonder any more.”

His tone was conversational, not critical. She breathed out a huff of laughter. “One of the most successful?”

She felt him shrug. “It’s a subjective measurement. There was one team a long time ago that might have given you a run for your money-- the director and a new recruit, teamed up out of necessity during an internal crisis. But their mission record was never formalized.”

“You?”

“Not as the director.”

“Who?”

“Peggy Carter.”

Coulson came back. “I think we should go before Agent Romanoff finds more helicopters to jump out of. The elevator inside goes down to the landing platform.”

She didn’t flip him off, but only because she was leaning on Fury.

“Do we need anyone else?” Coulson continued.

She felt Fury shrug. “ _I_ still remember how to drive a boat.”

Coulson didn't rise to the bait. “Then let's go.”

They headed towards the building, or tried to. Even with Fury taking part of her weight, she stumbled. Shit, what was  _wrong_ with her?

_No._ She'd been poisoned, she'd performed wild acrobatics on the oil rig, and now she'd been stabbed. And still, arguably, she'd saved the entire strike force.

_I'm not weak. Who else could've done that?_

“May I, Agent Romanoff?”

She appreciated that he asked, that he wasn’t stupid enough to manhandle her. And she was too far gone to care what anyone else thought. She nodded, even that movement making her slump forward. Fury picked her up with surprising care. “Sorry,” he said, when she hissed at the pain in her shoulder. They kept going.

They rode down on the elevator. Fury handed her to Coulson, in the boat at the base of the platform. There was a makeshift mattress of life vests-- right, the boat had been carrying wounded before. Coulson helped her down onto that.  
She wanted to sleep. But she was at the very far edge of her limits, and if she didn't take care of herself, she'd get a lot worse. “Any food and water?”

Coulson's hand appeared in her field of vision after a moment, holding an emergency meal bar and a water bottle-- unopened. That would do. She got most of both down without feeling sick, and  _then_ closed her eyes.

When she woke, her face was covered with cold spray, but there was something big and warm over her. She twitched her left-hand fingers enough to feel battered, supple leather.

They were still moving. She hadn't slept long. The wind quieted; she heard Fury and Coulson talking.

“… Vienna.”

“Vienna was mine,” Coulson protested. “Free and clear. You know the rules.”

“Yeah, but I—“

“No  _buts_ , Nick. Vienna’s in my column.”

“Fine.” Fury sounded more amused than upset. “Davao, then.”

A long silence. “Davao’s a toss-up.”

“Excuse me, who hauled whose ass out of whose screw-up?”

“Who made the shot that blew the compound?”

She drifted until she heard Coulson say, “She did good.”

“She did stupid.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive. And she saved us.”

After a minute, Fury said, “If I had to handle those two personally, I'd start going grey.”

“You did go grey.” Coulson sounded amused. “It’s why you shaved your head.”

“I know where you keep your trading cards, Phil.”

Pause. “You fight dirty.”

“You'd start looking for the Doombot port if I didn't.” After a few minutes, Fury added, “Best call Barton’s ever made.”

“After coming in himself,” Coulson agreed.

“Which may be the best call  _you’ve_ ever made.”

“I’ve made so many fantastic calls, I don’t know how you could pick.”

“I see you haven’t lost your humble demeanor, Coulson. I’d hate to think those promotions are going to your head.”

“Not at all.”

Another long pause. Then: “How do you think he knew? That she was... worth the risk.”

“You know what he said.”

“Of course I know what he said.”

Coulson paused. “Barton’s always seen things no one else could.”

“Damn lucky for us, he’s saved our asses more times than I care to remember. And she’s catching up.” Pause. “She’s awake, isn’t she.” He sounded resigned.

“Probably.”

She smiled, and tugged the trench coat up a bit higher.

*

She woke up on the plane from Bergen, too exhausted and pained to sleep again. That didn't make sense. She was also too tired to sort it out.

There was a tablet within arm's reach. She logged onto the intranet for something mindless to do. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s bureaucracy could always be counted on for that. She took care of some minor details and then stared at the ceiling of the plane, wondering how her life had come to include paperwork this fastidious about ridiculous things.

But better than the Red Room. Always, better.

Three messages caught her attention. Two were from Carter. She opened the earlier one-- it was completely unintelligible. Her eyebrows went up. Was this code? Was Carter in trouble? She started to pull Carter's status from the roster, then opened the second message:  _Sorry. Allergic reaction to painkillers._

Her eyebrows stayed up as she wrote a reply, possibly more concerned than she would have allowed in a less exhausted state. The last message was from Clint:  _coulson hunted me down and demanded brisbane auxil. report. you remember latlong of abandoned base? please help me not look like an idiot._ Then, as an obvious afterthought:  _how are you._

Assassins doing paperwork. It could be a sitcom. She smirked, and wrote back with the coordinates and  _fine_ . Then she slumped down on the deck again and started imagining the season pilot. She fell asleep...

At Paris HQ she was sent straight to the med bay. They poked her and prodded her and took a lot of blood samples while making worried faces. She ignored them and slept again.

The next time she woke up was because of noise-- people, lots of them, moving around. She felt the needles and panicked. What were they, when had they--

_No._ S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't the Red Room. She knew this. She made herself be calm and think, and remembered the doctors putting them in. Just an IV, and a monitoring port. She-- actually didn't feel terrible. Even being in the med bay, this was pretty much everything she'd dreamed of. Sleep. Warmth. No need to move. No stomach cramps. Excellent painkillers.

She listened to the controlled chaos outside as the med staff got a lot of people into beds. One of the nurses pulled the curtain around her alcove more securely, but she still heard it all. The words “Kalahari” and “rescue” were repeated over and over again, along with “dehydration.” She also heard “Hawkeye” and “Barton” repeated a couple of times, in distinctly admiring tones.

She pieced the story together, smiled, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

The next time she woke up, she was looking right at a pair of dirty boots, on top of her sheets.

“We gotta stop meeting like this.” Clint didn't look up. He was fidgeting with a dirty bandage around his left hand.

“With your feet on my bed? Yes, we do.” She poked without real effort at the boots. He sat up with a look of long-suffering. She looked him over. He was visibly sunburned and tired, but-- besides his boots-- was clean and not otherwise damaged.

She sat up herself. The needles were gone. Bad that she hadn't noticed their removal, but otherwise, good. “What happened to your hand?”

He held it up and wiggled his fingers. “Acacia thorn. Festered. Not bad, just annoying.” He looked up. “Were you gonna tell me you were poisoned?”

_I've been asleep_ , she wanted to retort, but they both knew she'd been in contact with him. “Like you told me about your shoulder?”

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

“So.” She forced lightness into her tone. “I heard about the mission you just pulled off. The staff was practically swooning.”

His grin was lopsided, but genuine. “That's just the kind of secret agent I am. Devastatingly talented, charming, stunning...”

“You're stunning, all right.” She raised an eyebrow. “I do appreciate the lack of harmonica, by the way.”

“I left it in Missouri. Sorry. I know you'd be upset. I gotta say, though--” he continued over her energetic protest. “That nurse was real surprised when it turned up in her laundry hamper.”

Her eyebrows went up. “So in addition to making screechy atonal noises from hell, it's capable of independent movement? I'm staking the little fucker next time I see it.”

He looked sideways at her. “You wouldn't know anything about how it got there, would you, Natasha?”

“Hell?”

“Ms. Arnold's hamper.”

“Why would I?”

“So... was that a no?”

“Barton, I'm not even dignifying that with a response.”

His soft chuckle said she probably hadn't fooled him.

She swung her legs over the edge and carefully put some weight on her feet. “Help me get out of here?” They'd just wanted to keep her for monitoring; the equipment by the bed was turned off. She didn't need the nurses to tell her to rest and hydrate.

She glanced up. “Or were you settled in for a long wait?” She tried to make it come out sarcastic and was successful. Probably.

Clint's lips twitched, but all he said was, “Just got here, actually. Some of the people I pulled out are here, I was checkin' on them.” His gaze drifted off into space, and he frowned.

“They okay?” she asked softly.

His expression cleared. “Yeah, they're fine.”

She stood carefully, and then they blew the proverbial popsicle stand. She still wasn't sure what that actually meant. They headed for the doors. “Are popsicles considered offensive in this country?”

Clint looked at her. “Are popsicles. Considered offensive in France.”

“I meant the US.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Or perhaps dangerous?”

They were still bickering about popsicles when they passed a tall, blonde woman who gave her a cool look, just that side of unfriendly. No--

_Clint_ had been the one getting Danvers' unfriendly look.

Clint looked over at Natasha. He was many things, and while  _stunning_ perhaps wasn't among them, neither were  _slow_ or  _stupid_ . She'd never heard him gossip, but he had ears. “What was that?”

“A failed experiment,” she said after a minute.

“You okay?”

She shrugged. “Turns out I don't really want that I thought I wanted.”

They'd gone a full ten more steps when he said, quietly, “You know-- you don't have to--”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, to cut him off. Two years ago, she might have lashed out at him for going that far, but it wasn't two years ago--  _she_ wasn't two years ago. And she didn't-- 

And that was good.

“I know,” she added.

*

They sent her to Missouri to convalesce. She might have complained, but she was too busy sleeping. She slept through the flight from Paris, and the first twelve hours she was on base.

Then she stopped sleeping nearly as much, and also stopped recovering nearly as fast, because the nightmares came back.

She didn't think it was a sign that she was going crazy again. These felt different. And her head didn't hurt. These were all variations of a theme: the dead Red Room trainees.

She'd saved Clint, Coulson, Fury, the whole damn organization, the  _world_ ... but S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't her only possible creditor. You couldn't pay a debt to someone who was dead, but that was her problem, not theirs. It didn't erase the failure that had incurred the debt.

Why  _now?_ Why not right after she'd learned they were all dead? Because-- the longer she lived, the more she valued what S.H.I.E.L.D. had given her. What the others could never now have.

Clint was gone, sent to Providence. She didn't know if she would have told him about any of this, but it was moot, now. She'd had this strange feeling ever since he'd left... and she was terrified it might be loneliness.

_That's not who I am._

_Is it?_

She owed him so much, even if she wouldn't admit it out loud, and the thought of owing him more-- in the horrifyingly intimate way bound up with-- with  _missing_ someone-- terrified her. But... 

But he owed her, too. Did that mean... there were no debts between them? Could it  _work_ like that?

She trusted him enough for that now, trusted that he wasn't keeping count and wouldn't present her with a bill some day. A little less red, in her ledger and in his, too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely feedback on the last chapter! I was startled to find _so many comments_ the very next morning, and it was extremely encouraging.
> 
> Scientists did figure out some of the unusual noises recorded by SOSUS after the date at which this chapter is set. You can read more about them [on Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_unexplained_sounds) or in this [Discovery News article](http://news.discovery.com/earth/oceans/mysterious-underwater-sounds-that-have-stumped-scientists-140423.htm).


	13. Here We Come Assailing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: on-screen, this chapter contains graphic violence and sexual harassment. In addition to those subjects, this chapter references dismemberment, torture, and medical experimentation.

When he stalked into Coulson's office, about ready to kill something, Coulson handed him a hot cup of coffee without even looking up from his paperwork.

Clint tasted it cautiously. It was _good_ coffee-- might have cost Coulson some effort to prepare. That, plus the fact that it had been poured very recently, told Clint that Coulson had known exactly what Medical was going to tell him.

“I don't know what the fuck they're playing at,” he said, still with less of an edge than he would have _sans_ coffee.

“You're still doing extremely good work.”

 _I want my Goddamn bow_. He didn't say it; Coulson had made it clear he was out of patience with hearing it.

Instead he slouched down and drank the coffee appreciatively. Then he made himself admit there were more things contributing to his mood. It was the kind of day where what he would've brushed off any other day got a lot harder to ignore. A bunch of food he'd stuck under his bed had turned colors, and he'd had to throw it out, which always felt _wrong_ no matter how moldy it was. The waiting room at Medical had held three young kids-- infants, really-- and he'd spent the whole time until they called him back wondering what the hell had happened that they were waiting for care _on a S.H.I.E.L.D. base_ , but too afraid to know the answer to ask. And...

“Locker room gossip's gotten ugly again,” he said after a minute. “S'pose I know better than to listen.”

Coulson made a non-committal noise.

“It's about Natasha.” Clint wasn't sure why he was saying this, except he knew Coulson cared about Natasha, no matter how many layers of sarcasm each of them tried to hide it under. “People sayin' she tried to seduce and kill Peregrine Four--”

He'd had words about that with Wensler, when they'd run into each other, because he knew the story couldn't have gotten out besides from him. Clint liked Wensler, but Wensler was being a dick and it was hurting Clint's best friend. Simple as that. The words would have been sharper except for how cowed Wensler had already looked, and a persistent rumor that someone had already ripped him to shreds over the whole thing. The only name he'd heard didn't make any sense. Carter hadn't even been back on a base yet.

“-- and that she screwed a mark.” That one had come from a scrawny junior agent bragging to his friends that he'd gotten to listen. Clint had stared at him until he'd looked up and nearly wet himself.

“That one's true, actually,” Coulson said.

Clint blinked. “What? Is--” He cut himself off before saying _she_ _okay_. “What?”

“It was a while ago.” Coulson finally looked up, eyeing him with curiosity. “Shortly after Latveria.”

Clint'd seen her since then. If it hadn't been important enough to her to mention, then... “Her call?” He eyed Coulson right back.

“Yes. I was there. Very much her call.” Coulson paused. “Not there, there.”

“Yeah, I imagine she would've mentioned _that_.”

Coulson gave him an inexplicably frosty look. Then he paused. “Barton-- Clint. I have to ask--”

Coulson's phone rang. Coulson answered it. His eyebrows went way up, wrinkling his forehead. He hit a few buttons on his computer, then turned the monitor so Clint could see. It was grainy footage, dated about four hours previously. A bunch of tanks and jeeps were firing up at something small and bright and impossibly maneuverable, swooping through the air. Armed, too-- it was blowing up the tanks and jeeps about as fast as it could aim.

He wasn't all that surprised when Coulson hung up and said, “Tony Stark blew up a weapons convoy headed to rebels in Chechnya who were about to move on a primarily civilian population.”

“Huh.” The footage switched to something higher resolution, probably from American TV, showing Stark standing in front of a bunch of microphones with a tall, pale redhead looking quietly aggrieved behind him.

Coulson muttered something Clint didn't catch, but he sounded aggrieved himself. It _sounded_ like “Stark doesn't deserve his luck.”

Clint looked at him. “'cause he survived Afghanistan and built himself that suit?”

“No,” Coulson said. “Not that.” He didn't elaborate, just watched the screen with something that was suspiciously close to a glower. Coulson _never_... glowered.

*

When she got to the briefing room in Manhattan, Fury was waiting for her, dwarfing the small space.

“How are you doing?”

She frowned as she sat down. “What?”

“How are you _doing_?” he repeated, with obvious impatience.

“I’m... fine.”

“No lasting effects from Jensen’s poison.”

“… no.” She paused. “Thanks for saving my life.”

He looked amused. “Do you want me to get all of the agents from the rig to line up and tell you the same thing?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He folded his hands, and became serious. “We need to talk.”

“I gathered that when I was told to report here.”

He didn’t respond to her snark, but got up and stood at the small window, looking over the lights of the borough. “When I took S.H.I.E.L.D. over from Director Carter, our mission was clear. Play whack-a-mole with Hydra. Keep the balance between world powers. Contain the USSR, but don't let the U.S. and NATO go too far in stopping it. Now we take down half a dozen megalomaniacs each year, we save mutants from being trafficked and tortured, we stop warlords from experimenting on the locals to create their own custom-made army. The hierarchy of threats has fractured.” He turned. “It's gotten messy.”

She looked at him.

He smiled humorlessly. “I’m not going senile, Agent Romanoff, there’s a point to this.”

“I didn’t think you were,” she said politely.

He snorted. “Did you catch the news about Stark?”

“He made a flying robot suit, killed his COO, and is calling himself Iron Man.”

Fury nodded. “I asked him to join us. He said no.”

“You asked Tony _Stark_ to join S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“No.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then what? His local chapter of the Boy Scouts?”

He sat down across from her. “You and Agent Barton have been extraordinarily successful. Won battles that should have killed you. The two of you, and Coulson, Carter, half a dozen others... successful and _lucky_. We can't keep relying on that luck. The threats are getting bigger. I can't keep sending my people into things they were never meant to handle. They'll die before they give up, I know, but they'll still be just as dead.”

“We need people who can handle the big stuff. The weird stuff. So I'm putting together a strike team of superheroes.”

“Of,” she said, “superheroes.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“Superheroes aren’t real. You can't have superheroes unless heroes are real.”

“You’ve been a hero to a number of people that would surprise you, over the years.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not here to raise your self-esteem. I _am_ putting together such a team. Think of them as ‘elite agents' if that helps you sleep at night. Stark said no; if he’s not working with us, he’s an unknown quantity, and we need to monitor him. You’ll be joining Stark Industries. Tell us what he’s up to, and evaluate him as a possible team member.”

“How are you planning to change his mind?”

“These things have a way of presenting themselves.”

She shrugged. “Who else are you looking for for this team?”

He hesitated. “There’s someone operating out of Hell’s Kitchen that we’re trying to track down, but he— or she— has gone quiet recently. A Wakandan woman, a former member of the king’s guard. Some others…” He gestured, and a list appeared, floating in the air. He turned it so she could see it.

She read it quickly. “ _My_ inclusion might make me suspect your senility.”

“Why? You're one of the best I've got.”

She needed time to digest all this. “So you want my opinion on whether he could play well with others?”

“Yes. Could we rely on him. Could his teammates rely on him.”

She nodded.

“Warn us next time he's about to do something big. Or stupid. They tend to go together. We also want a new back door into his security. After Stane tried to kill him, Stark spent a lot of time redoing everything, and we haven't caught up yet.” He grimaced. “Agent Coulson has the details of your insertion.”

But he didn't dismiss her; his hand rested on the file folder that had been on the table since she came in. “You've incurred a lot of injuries lately. Your heart stopped, two sets of broken ribs, one bullet to internal organs, one to the leg, and poison.”

She tried to get away with saying nothing, but he obviously wanted a response. “Yes.”

“You bounced back quickly.”

“I've always been resilient.”

Fury looked at her, then glanced away. He actually looked... _uncomfortable_? Sad? Resigned? All of those options alarmed her. “After Bergen I had R &D sequence your genome and do a full work-up of your body's biochemistry-- with samples we already had-- looking for any sign that the Red Room engineered you.”

 _I-- what_ \-- She forced herself to take a careful breath in. She didn't open her mouth until she could respond deliberately. “You didn't do that when I came in?”

“The genome, no. We checked your biochemistry, but we were looking for signs of what the Red Room had done to your head, not the rest of you.” He leaned back in his chair. “It hadn't occurred to me to wonder about anything else until this last year.”

“And the results?”

The pause was excruciating. “Inconclusive,” he said finally. “R&D says there's no blatant sign of genetic engineering, but they can't rule out something subtler with our current knowledge.” He looked impatient with that excuse. “Same for your body chemistry. You're at the edge of known human levels for certain chemicals and processes, but they can't say whether you were made that way.”

Maybe a lesser person just wouldn't have survived. Unnatural selection?

She'd never really considered that the Red Room might have shaped her beyond making her beautiful and obedient. Not because the Red Room had any limits, but because she'd worked _hard_ for all her skills, her strength, her grace. She healed fast, but not freakishly so.

Right?

Fury handed her a folder. “Here's the summary. The raw data is encrypted on the intranet.”

“Take it down and put it somewhere secure.” She paused. “... please.”

He nodded.

“What happens to the samples?”

“What's left of them stays in cold storage, just like they've been since the day you came in.”

“Who has access to the results?”

“A few members of R&D. None of them have your name.”

“Could they figure it out from my DNA?”

“You're not the only member of S.H.I.E.L.D. of Russian descent, and without a close relative to make a definite match, no one could be sure.” He shrugged. “What I asked them to look for could be a clue.”

She nodded.

“That was all, Agent Romanoff. Do you have any questions about your Stark mission?”

She shook her head.

“Good luck.” There was a lilt to his voice she couldn't quite place.

She smiled with obvious insincerity. “Thanks.”

 _A close relative to make a definite match_. She stopped dead halfway to the door.

“Agent Romanoff?”

_Could they find..._

_No._

She shook her head, and fled.

*

Natasha frowned down at the intel in Coulson's dossier, from the last board meeting Stark had actually attended. Well, he'd attended the last two, but the second he'd crashed thirty minutes late with a swimsuit model and a clarinet player for the LA Phil. “I got the impression Stark didn't care much about the day-to-day operation of the company, and retained Potts for that reason.”

“He retains Ms. Potts because he knows both he and his company would be sunk without her,” Coulson muttered. Then, louder: “Stark’s not just a nerd with a mind for plans. He’s a genius, in the broadest sense of the word. When he bothers to do it, he's very good at creating whatever impression he wants to create. Maybe even nearly as good as you.”

She frowned in disbelief. “Tony Stark? International playboy who can't keep his mouth shut in front of the press for more than sixty seconds? _Him_?”

Coulson smiled. “Like I said. He's good.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “About this cover,” she said instead. “A former _model_?”

“We want you to catch Stark's eye. You don't have to sleep with him.”

“Good, I wasn't intending to.” They both knew that; she put Coulson's statement down to mollifying her rather than any confusion on that point.

“And we need you to help add some verisimilitude to the story.”

“Spit it out, Coulson.”

“Docs wants you to do an underwear shoot.”

“An underwear,” she said, “shoot.”

Coulson nodded.

_Run the thongs up the flagpole, I'll nail them from a hundred meters._

“The photo crew will be more professional than the D.C. analysts,” he added.

She didn't thank him; making sure his underlings acted appropriately was his job. “Anything _else_?”

“You’re getting a new uniform.”

“A leather bikini bottom? A chain mail bra?”

“No. A redesign, to give you more protection in close combat. You've racked up injuries lately.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. protecting their investment?” she said drily.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to try to convince me you _like_ being in Medical?” He pulled up a picture. “It absorbs impacts from blows and blades, and it's very flexible.”

She frowned. “Coulson, that's a leather catsuit.”

“It’s not leather. It’s a synthetic. We could make it in S.H.I.E.L.D. blue instead of black, but you'd, ah, look like a Smurf.”

“Like a-- no, never mind. Fine, I'll try it.”

“Barton gets one, too.”

“Barton gets a leather catsuit?” She smirked.

Coulson frowned at her. “A new uniform. More protective. For all the times we drop you and him in the deep end and tell you to swim.”

“I said I’d try it. Will I need it on this mission?”

“I’d say no, but I’ve handled you for three and a half years, and never let it be said I can’t learn.”

She smiled.

It wasn’t that bad. It was about as slim and close-fitting as her normal uniform. Some of the advantages of that were more obvious than others; the number of otherwise-trained fighters who thought a woman with large breasts couldn’t possibly be skilled at unarmed combat was to her advantage.

The number of purported professionals who thought a woman with large breasts couldn't possibly be _intelligent_ was, once she infiltrated Stark Industries, less to her cover story's advantage. Stark Industries hadn't gotten where it was by hiring stupid people, but the military-industrial complex was full of testosterone, and sexist stupidity was not actually limited to one gender.

For all that its CEO was a famous womanizer, though, the place was not as bad as she'd expected. Natasha wondered how much of that was Potts' influence. She wondered a lot about Potts, who occupied an interesting place in the corporate hierarchy: she answered only to Stark and had no direct reports, but it was obvious she had a lot of power.

She was also, Natasha learned, very popular, probably because she was a partial bulwark of sanity between Stark and everyone else. No one would say where they heard it, but there was a rumor going around that the Iron Monger-- Stane-- had threatened Potts. Natasha wondered if that was one reason few employees held Stane's death against Stark. They _had_ to know; Stane had supervised construction of a giant suit of armor, Stark had fought a giant suit of armor, and Stane had immediately died in a “car accident” on an unannounced trip.

Word had also gotten around that Stane had been selling weapons behind Stark’s back for years. It was odd that anyone minded that one so much. What they made-- had made-- killed people. Why did they care so much about which side they were on? That seemed like more naiveté.

It was a Tuesday morning when she heard the frantic-edged noise in the office. It sounded like a piece of bad news discovered as people opened their inboxes for the first time since starting their commute. It could also be the kind of problem she dealt with on a more regular basis. She checked her weapons, and eased her door open. No screaming; probably not a life or death situation.

“What’s going on?” she asked the nearest person— Nadine.

Nadine barely glanced at her. She wasn’t particularly fond of Natalie; Natasha had seen her, more than once, saying something catty across the room. “Potential last-minute problem in negotiations with a company in São Paulo, and we need the documents translated immediately. One of our Portuguese translators is on paternity leave, one quit last week, and Sinead just got an email from the wife of the third, who's in the hospital with a compound fracture. Everyone is trying to call in favors to see if they can get someone else at short notice.”

Natasha paused. _São Paulo_ hit home, as it always did and probably always would, but Natalie had never held a weapon in her life. “I’m fluent in Portuguese.”

Nadine turned quickly, looking at her full-on. There was a sudden bubble of quiet with Natalie at its center.

“If you mess this up, hell to pay won’t begin to cover it.” Bluntness, not a threat.

“I’m very good.”

“Then why are you still here? Go find Sinead.”

Natalie found her boss and made her offer. “Yes,” Sinead said immediately. “Why was this not on your resumé? Don’t answer that; come with me.”

Natalie took the time to make one good, strong cup of tea, and then sat down. She blew up the text on her screen, to save her eyes, and started typing.

Someone knocked on the door. She looked up, saw that two and a half hours had passed, and noticed that her neck and back were stiff and her eyes were burning. “Come in.”

It was Nadine. She was holding a plastic box. “We went out for a quick lunch. I wasn’t sure what you liked, but I brought you back something.”

That caught both Natalie and Natasha’s attention, the latter for more paranoid reasons than the former. She swiveled away from her computer. “Thank you.”

“I underestimated you,” Nadine said.

“I get that a lot.”

“You used to be a model?”

 _That's usually what comes next._ “Yes. I saw a lot of the world and it fascinated me. But I didn’t like being successful primarily because of my body.” Natasha hesitated for a moment. Echoes of the long-dormant-- dead?-- Natalia stirred, none of them quite sure who was speaking. “I’ve always been very good with languages and I picked them up quickly when I traveled, so working for a multinational corporation seemed like a good fit. Apparently, some things are easier to leave behind than others.”

Nadine winced. “My conscience and I are going to leave you alone to work. Good luck.”

Natalie smiled. She, or someone in her head, liked people who could admit they were wrong. “Thanks.”

She was going to be here into the night, she calculated. But the building here was _heated_ . She could _stretch_. She probably didn’t even have to shoot anyone at the end of the day. What luxury.

Hours later, she stretched by walking to the toilets and back. While the Red Room had made her do much more grueling things, including tests of concentration and willpower, they’d never given her extended tests of her mental capacity. They required— they _had_ required— their slaves to be quick-thinking and creative enough to escape anything but their own captivity, but formal learning had been low on the list of priorities.

The next knock was another two hours later. This time Nadine held a large cup of coffee— still steaming. Damn it. This newfound friendliness of Nadine's-- if it really was that-- was testing Natasha's willingness to take ingestibles from strangers.

Natalie turned to look at her. “You have a high-powered job of your own. Why are you bringing me coffee?” That was the kind of thing that S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Women's Council-- mostly comprising young and earnest new hires-- got really upset about.

“If you fail, we all look bad.” She put the cup down on Natalie’s desk. “And I’ve never seen Sinead so worried about a contract before.” She hesitated. “Sinead put her ass on the line for me a few years ago. I don’t want to see her get hers handed to her.”

Natalie raised her eyebrows in silent invitation.

“I left my old job and put my career on pause when my son was born,” Nadine said. “I was going to go back after a few years. My, uh... husband wasn't willing to stay home.” She paused. “Then I got pregnant again unexpectedly, and had a daughter, and I wanted the same time with her I’d had with Erik… by the time she was old enough that I felt comfortable sending her to preschool, I’d been out for seven years and I hadn’t really kept my hand in. Sinead took a chance on me. There were lots of younger, fresher candidates; I know she was the deciding vote for me.” She shrugged. “I work hard. She hasn’t regretted it. But she’s a good boss and I want to see her succeed.” She looked down. “Why am I telling you all this? Do you have any kids?”

“No.”

Nadine hesitated. “No family pictures, I see.”

Natalie shook her head. “I just… uh, no. No family.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Some of it was by choice, some not. I’m okay with it.” She took a sip of the coffee without showing her hesitation. “Thanks, that’ll get me through the next three hours.”

The office slowly emptied out. Sinead stayed; it was ultimately her responsibility to make sure the paperwork was finalized by close of business tomorrow. But she was drinking a lot of coffee to stay awake, so inevitably, she left for the bathroom. Natasha immediately slipped out of her office and into Sinead's.

The downside of people keeping things in hard copy in a central location was that it was harder to snoop. The benefit was that it was easier to cover the tracks of your snooping when you-- inevitably, if you were Natasha Romanoff-- got to them anyway.

Natasha quickly and carefully rifled the office. She made mental notes of anything that would interest S.H.I.E.L.D. Near the bottom of the neat stack on the desk was a printed email, with case notes scribbled in the margins-- a confidential memo discussing the possibility that the US government wanted Stark's Iron Man armor. _That_ could be... explosive.

She was ready with an excuse about needing documents in case Sinead caught her, but Natasha was out before she was seen. It took her another five hours to finish, and then triple-check, the documents. Noticing details because your life depended on them translated surprisingly well to high-stakes negotiations.

Sinead stayed until the bitter end. “I don't want to see you before noon tomorrow,” she warned Natalie with a tired smile. Natalie nodded, covered a yawn, stretched, and walked stiffly out to her car, like a good little employee who never got more excitement than her Pilates class, and who certainly never stayed up sixty hours at a time running for her life.

*

The next day, she spent her first fifteen minutes troubleshooting the copy machine so it would make her damn copies. _Why do they call it_ troubleshooting _if you're not allowed to_ shoot anything?

The first person she ran into was Sinead. “I heard from our Porto office early this morning. They said everything was in order. That was quite a save you pulled off.”

Natalie smiled demurely. “My past career gave me an unusual skill set. I’m glad it came in handy.”

“Yes.” Sinead's phone buzzed; she frowned. “Will you take these downstairs to Murdock in the trial office?”

“He won’t be at lunch?”

“I doubt it. Try again later if he is. Thank you.”

The folder, labeled _Confidential_ and _Eyes Only,_ was a report from one of Stark Industries’ “off-site placements”-- corporate spies. This one was from TechnoStar, Incorporated, detailing a failure to replicate the Iron Man armor. Stark had people with all the major tech companies, including Hammer and Viastone. Who coordinated them? That kind of subterfuge didn't seem like Stark.

The spacious front lobby of the office suite downstairs was mostly dark. She was halfway through the reception area when she noticed a man sitting alone at the large table in the back, near the tall shelves, surrounded by papers.

He lifted his head. “Can I help you?”

Natasha covered her surprise at being taken by surprise. “I’m looking for Mr. Murdock.”

He smiled slightly. “You’ve found him.”

She studied him. He was maybe five years older than Clint, had startlingly bright red hair, and was impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit. His glasses had odd smoky lenses, but the frames flattered his face. Even the heavy cane leaning against the table was elegant and attractive.

“Your co-workers left you in the dark?” He was sitting right next to a table lamp, but it was off.

He paused. “I have very acute senses.” He stood, carefully— an old injury?— and held out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. Matt.”

She shook his hand. “Natalie Rushman, from upstairs. Sinead asked me to give these to you.”

“Thank you.” He flipped open the folder and looked through the papers, fingers brushing idly over the surface. “Would you ask your admins to have these photos reprinted on matte paper? We don't have the files, or I would do it.”

“Matte paper.”

“Yes.”

“Certainly, Mr. Murdock.”

He tucked the folder under his arm. “And so they have you fighting with the copier? I think it’s a rite of passage for all new employees.”

She looked down. Her fingers were spotless. “How did you know?”

Another slight smile. “I smelled the toner on your hands when you handed me the folder.”

Her eyebrows went up. Natasha starting paying closer attention. Murdock was looking past her face, but when she looked over her shoulder, there was no one there. There was nothing for her to say besides, “I'll get you those photos.”

Natalie had to wait for Sinead, who had access to the confidential files. When she took the reprints downstairs, the lights were on and Murdock was gone from the lobby. She found his office. He was leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, throwing and catching a stress ball. He sat up when she appeared in the doorway. “Ms. Rushman.”

“Mr. Murdock.” She held out the folder.

“Thank you, Ms. Rushman.” He ran his fingertip over the photo on top. “How do you like it here at Stark Industries?”

“It's such a relief to spend January somewhere warm... I used to live in New York.” She paused. “Have you been here long?”

“A… a few years. I’m also from New York, actually.”

“Do you miss it?”

He was quiet for longer than such an innocuous question deserved. “Some things.” His smile was a little forced. “And you?”

“Oh, I… miss the people, I suppose,” Natalie said. “They’re— living in such a dense city gets on your nerves, but all the same, there’s a vitality there I miss.”

“The bustle.” He sounded wistful. “Knowing that at all hours of the day and night, someone is nearby. There's an energy you can almost... sense.”

He seemed to be having a moment. She let him.

“And have you, uh, explored the area?” he said after a minute. “I'd be happy to play your expat tour guide--”

His phone rang. He picked it up. “Matt Murdock.” His tone was instantly cool and serious. _Sorry_ , he mouthed at her, glancing just past her. She gave him a wave, and left.

*

Telling S.H.I.E.L.D. about the government's interest in Stark's armor was like poking an anthill with a stick. They wanted to know everything about Stark's possible response. As far as Natasha could tell, that response boiled down to Tony Stark saying “over my dead body, literally” and Legal scrambling to put together every defense in the book against what they called an illegal seizure. Natalie began to worm her way into related projects.

She was finishing lunch in the cafeteria one day when Matt Murdock sat down across from her with a piece of cheesecake. “They’re advertising this as ‘New York style,’” he said. “I thought we could try it together, and then laugh at them.”

“It can’t be _that_ bad.”

“The cooks here do many things well. Imitating other regional specialties is generally not one of them.”

She cut the slice down the middle, sliding half onto her own plate. She didn't need to be sharing a plate with Murdock. The catty murmurs about her had died down since she'd saved the negotiations, but she knew they could come back. She took a bite. “It's fine. Try it.”

He took a bite. “... Mmm.”

Natalie laughed. “Are you a cheesecake snob, Matt?”

“I’m a New Yorker, I’m a snob about everything.”

“Poor Mr. Murdock,” Natalie said, with fake sympathy. “Forced to live in one of the wealthiest parts of the country, surrounded by fancy restaurants that serve _everything_ , and you just can’t find anything to satisfy you.”

“That’s not _entirely_ true.” He took another bite. “There’s a new place that just opened up near me. The Southwestern fusion. It's getting great reviews.” He paused. “Would you like to try it sometime?”

Natasha paused. Murdock was tolerable. Going out with him wouldn’t immediately advance her mission, but it wouldn’t hurt it, either; Murdock being in a different branch would at least moderate the catty suggestions that Natalie was trying to fuck her way to the top. A date might give her leverage she could use later. On the other hand, when she inevitably sent Murdock on his way, what would happen?

“I can hear you thinking from over here. I won’t be offended if you say no.” The slight smile hovered around his mouth again, but there were lines around his eyes.

Natasha wasn’t interested in Murdock, but she was curious about him. Natalie looked up at him through her eyelashes. “I’ll think about it and get back to you.” Her voice dropped into a bit of a purr.

He grinned appreciatively; then it turned into a lopsided, sardonic smirk. “If you’re trying to let me down easy, you can tell me to my face. I won’t bother you about it. I’m many bad things, but that kind of asshole isn’t one of them.”

“But I’m not trying to let you down easy.” Natalie smiled prettily. She took a last bite. “I need to prepare some notes for my three o’clock. Thanks for the cheesecake, Matt.”

“Catch you later, Natalie.”

She felt him watching her as she left.

*

Stark Industries closed from December 23 rd  to January 2  nd . They'd all be glued to their email, of course, but at least theoretically, they had time off.

Natalie Rushman had no family and no reason to leave L.A., and Natasha had to stick to Natalie’s life. No gallivanting off to Benelux, if that had appealed, which it didn’t; SoCal was _warm_ in December.

She got a call from Coulson late on the 22nd. “We need you. Be at Edwards in two hours. There’ll be a plane waiting.”

She had to drive like Clint to make it, but once she got out of the city, it was a pretty trip. The waxing moon illuminated the eerie, lonely desert. She liked it. Because she was driving late at night, with no one around to observe, she let herself appreciate the way it was just… nice.

She was the only passenger on the plane. “Where are we going?”

“To the Roswell base, Agent Romanoff. Agent Coulson will meet you there, with your temporary strike force.”

She slept on the plane. They reached Roswell in the early morning. The base was quiet; even the guard who waved her inside and gave her a conference room number looked sleepy.

When she got there, it was just Clint and Coulson. That felt… surprisingly _right_. She ignored that reaction, and its strength, and said, “You must have gotten a promotion if you’re an entire strike force now.”

“Actually they cloned me,” Clint said. “The other nine are on their way.”

Coulson mostly, but not entirely, suppressed his shudder.

She sat down. “What’s the mission?”

Coulson pulled up a spread of aerial photos of a desert. “This is a site in northern Mexico. We think it might be a Hydra base.”

Natasha's eyes narrowed.

“And we're not carpet-bombing it into dust, because...?” Clint asked.

“There's a chance that Hydra is kidnapping pregnant women trying to cross the border and experimenting on their unborn children, in this facility.”

Natasha's hand clenched into a fist.

“We need to be sure it's clear of prisoners before we take it out,” Coulson continued. “A few days ago, the Border Patrol picked up a very pregnant woman who’d crossed into the States who was raving about, as they thought, impossible things. She had a lot of needle marks… they took her for a junkie.” He raised one eyebrow. “Luckily a doctor did some tests and discovered that the truth was significantly worse. We quietly extracted her from their custody... she's being monitored in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. Unfortunately, she's only semi-coherent, but we _think_ most of the test subjects are gone. That's why we substituted Hawkeye for a strike force and civilian rescue personnel. If we're wrong, get out and call for reinforcements.”

“You're taking action on her intel, it could be a trap,” Natasha said.

“Yes.”

 _Fucking_ Hydra.

“What happens to her?” Clint asked.

Coulson looked grave. “We’re not sure about the long-term effects. Best case scenario, she makes a complete recovery, we pull some strings and get her quietly resettled here.”

“And her kid?”

“Unfortunately, our doctors are even less certain of the effect on her child than on her.”

They split up to arm up. When she got to the plane, Clint was wearing his own new uniform, and loading the last of a stack of water containers in the hold. He picked up the slim black case by his feet, and loaded that too.

“They cleared you for your bow?”

“Nope.” But he was grinning. “Crossbow. Not the range I’m used to, but at least it’s not a gun. Less effort to keep it nocked, so the doctors signed off on it. Grudgingly. R&D made me some shorter shafts that take the same arrowheads I usually use.”

“Nice.”

They got clearance from base air traffic control, took off, and stayed low. “Do you have a bad feeling about this?” she asked, after they made it into Mexican airspace.

“What, the two of us taking on a Hydra base that supposedly we shouldn’t have any problem with?” He banked around a mountain. “What could possibly go wrong?”

They made a wide circle around the suspected site a few hours before dawn. She studied the monitors. “Signals consistent with long-distance transmissions. And electromagnetic leakage. Someone's down there.”

Clint brought them down smoothly in a narrow canyon, perfect cover for the plane. They grabbed their gear and secured the plane. He pointed up the cliff. “I'll cover you from up there 'til you get in.”

“Be careful.”

“C'mon, how many successful missions have I—“

Maybe deep cover had given her a bizarre taste for the truth, but she wasn't going to dance around it: “I’m not talking about that. Don’t hurt yourself.”

She expected him to snap at her. It was too dark for her to see his face clearly. “Yeah,” he said finally.

She slipped out of the canyon, clinging close to the rock _,_ and tapped her earpiece. “Check.”

“Loud and clear, Widow.”

By the time she made it around the rocks, he'd be at the top. She stayed low and crawled, eyes open for any suspicious patches that might be infrared sensors.

“In position,” Hawkeye said softly when she was about halfway across the open space.

She made it to the other side apparently unnoticed. She’d expected something more impressive. A couple of tents in the small canyon, a pickup truck, and— oh. There, a metal door set into the rock face, with only a few patches of brown paint left on it.

She depressed her earpiece. “How does Hydra keep digging in like this? We should start tracking them by sales of dynamite. That’s _solid rock_.”

Hawkeye made a thoughtful noise.

“This must be a hell of a valuable installation if they bothered.” Was it really as undefended as S.H.I.E.L.D. thought? “If this goes like the last several times--”

“I called in, confirmed the coordinates. Said we’d make contact again in two hours.”

“Check the tents with your infrareds?”

Long pause. “Cold.”

So the place appeared deserted, but was probably chock full of scientists and soldiers waiting to get the drop on them. _Just like Budapest all over again._ The back of her neck prickled uncomfortably. “Are you picking up on anything?”

“No sensors or lenses.”

She circled the canyon, staying just below the ridge line so she wasn’t silhouetted. No signs of life from any angle. She paused just above the door. She needed to lure them out without being obvious about it; all S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intel would be wasted if Hydra fled before the strike team got here. Not that they'd ever been great about running.

She spotted a likely-looking outcropping of rock on a steep pitch, with loose stones piled on top of it. “Get the rope behind me?”

“Copy.”

She set an anchor in the rock, and tested it and the attached line. Then she pulled the pin on a mini-grenade and tossed it across the canyon.

Perfect timing. It exploded and sent the loose rock tumbling down the slope. A couple of birds took off, crying noisily, and circled before flying away. To anyone who wasn't close, it would look like a minor landslide. And to get close, they'd have to open the door.

She felt sudden apprehension and told herself she was being ridiculous. She'd kicked Hydra's ass every time. She hadn't saved her life from the Red Room at great price only to spend it, hiding behind rocks, being _scared_.

The door slid open. Two people slipped out, hugging the rock face directly below her. The man covered the woman as she island-hopped from tent to tent. Natasha jumped up and over the edge of the rock, releasing the handle. She dropped down, down--

She let go of the rope, hit hard, and rolled behind the nearest cover as the door closed above her. She was in a small antechamber, just like in Georgia. It was empty, faintly lit by the blue glow of one blank monitor.

Natasha kept moving. The far door was unlocked and ajar. Light came around the edges. She listened. Silence beyond. “I'm going in,” she whispered. She got two clicks of acknowledgement.

She eased the door open a little farther. Beyond was a hallway, straight-- and also empty. It went some distance, then dead-ended in exposed rock. How big could this place be if they’d had to tunnel into rock?

There were three doors along the left and four along the right. She saw no cameras. After Budapest, she was reluctant to hug the walls-- she trusted their appearance as solid, impenetrable rock about as far as she could throw them. _Looking like you belong will get you a long way_. She wasn’t wearing a standard S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, and walking straight down the middle of the hallway would buy her half a second more than obviously sneaking if she were caught.

With each uneventful moment, she got edgier, approaching the point where it was like a chemical high. In Frankfurt, Hydra-- and Robinson-- had been responsible for the Secret Empire capturing her and _experimenting_ on her. In Budapest they’d trapped her and injected her. Her post-mission bloodwork had come back clean, with no indication that it had been anything besides a sedative, but--

 _Like_ a chemical high.

Was there something in the air?

No. She would be calm. This was just normal adrenaline. But it would get her killed if she didn't get it together, if she kept acting like a thirteen-year-old on her first mission.

She listened outside the first door. Quiet. She pushed it open. The small lab was crowded with normal-looking equipment-- and deserted. No computers. She ducked back into the hallway. The next door led to a small lounge, with a table, a microwave, a refrigerator, a sink, a coffee maker, and a doorless closet holding several boxes of food.

Behind the next door was a larger lab. The chairs and operating tables had restraints. _Wipe it from the face of the earth_ \--

 _No._ She would be _calm_. She checked for hidden people and cameras. Neither. Where was everyone?

Was she hallucinating--

 _Get a_ grip _, Romanoff_.

The lab led to a group prison/dormitory. The utilitarian bunk beds were too much like the Red Room. But this room was empty, too. In fact, it was eerily clean, with no sign it had ever been occupied.

There was one more door in the lab; it stood open, and the room beyond was half medical/surgical suite, half delivery room. This, too, was too familiar.

There was one old computer, attached to imaging equipment. She pulled out one of R&D's booby-trapped sticks and plugged it in. She had access in four seconds... they were getting better.

But the only thing she could find were folders and folders of ultrasounds. The labels were in Spanish, not German. She copied the contents of the hard drive-- it was an _enhanced_ USB stick-- and left the monitor dark like she'd found it.

Still no signs of life. She listened for the quiet hissing of gas, and looked for hidden vents. Nothing.

The next door led to a barracks, larger and less spartan than the one attached to the lab, but meant to hold as many people. She counted sixteen beds, but most of them had been stripped. Five had sheets. That left three people unaccounted for, plus anyone with a mattress fetish. There was a bathroom beyond. Was the sink still wet--

She caught the man-- boy's-- wrist and wrenched the gun out of his hand before he could shoot. He grabbed the rifle on his lap-- but it was too big for close quarters, and he was clumsy aiming it-- she put a knife in his throat. He died quickly, and cleanly, if not bloodlessly. More cleanly than the women who hadn’t, or wouldn’t, survive the experiments.

She searched his body. Nothing useful besides an ID card. No earpiece, no radio-- no sign that anyone would notice his death. Why had he been hiding in the _bat_ _hroom?_ There were at least two people left in here-- and two more possibly behind her, if she was unlucky. Did they not care what happened to the others? Or didn't know... This was a research facility. Were they dead of some horrible toxin, farther inside? Was she already contaminated?

She wouldn't find out by staying here.

The next door clicked open for the guard's ID. No gunfire. She slipped inside. It was a small office with a sleek computer. She turned R&D's binary predator loose on it and listened intently as the device worked.

She tapped her earpiece and was surprised when she heard it transmit. “One hostile dead. No other sign of life. Any movement out there?”

“No.”

She tapped to acknowledge. So he'd cleaned up after her, and no one in here had noticed? Or cared?

Or maybe Hydra had perfected killer hunting robots and they were even now moving silently down the hallway.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

When the stick finished its digital smash-and-grab, she secured it in an inner pocket and listened at the door. No sound. She slipped out. The corridor was empty.

She heard something as she continued down the hall. The last two doors, both doubles secured by a card swipe, were across from each other. Light came under the doors, and a rhythmic _clink_ of metal on metal, echoing in what was obviously a large room. Hammering?

It was coming from both sides. It was one room, then, that continued past the end of the hallway--

Someone growled what sounded like a curse, followed by a torrent of words. None of them were German.

“I just took down something they launched out of the top of the rock.” Hawkeye’s voice in her ear a second later. “Looked like a small drone, but moved way too fast. What’s your status?”

She tapped her earpiece to acknowledge. They probably couldn’t hear her over the noise they were—

They were still making. Why, if they’d already launched something?

— but she wouldn’t bet her life on luck.

“Four taps if you want me inside. Two for no.”

She hesitated, then tapped twice. If they were still busy in there, then they might be launching something else. Then she backed up far enough to risk saying, softly: “I think I found their launch facility. Going in now.” She locked her earpiece on.

She listened harder. They were speaking-- _English?_ She could've sworn they hadn't been a minute ago--

“-- took it down?” the same man was saying.

“No record of a missile, it just disappeared!”

“Contact the ground team-- they're outside, ask them--” the rest was muffled.

She backed up again. “Can you drop an arrow down the launch tube?”

A long pause. “What kind?”

“Gas arrowhead?”

“Don't have any.”

 _What?_ Ask later. “Something that'll get their attention. And no explosives-- I'm not sure what's in there.”

“Hmm.” Pause. “Arrow's nocked, ready on your mark.” He gave a startlingly precise estimate of how long it would take to get from him to the base.

She took out the guard's ID, and held it right above the card reader. Any readouts on who was opening doors would be in there... but they apparently hadn't noticed the dead man getting into the office. “Mark.”

Angry screaming from the room. Disgusted screaming? “What did you do to them?” She swiped the card. The lock _click_ ed.

Clint chuckled darkly. “Putty arrow.”

She dove in through the door, rolled, and came up in a crouch with a gun in each hand.

The room was taller than she’d expected, a workshop full of tanks, machine parts, and tools. Too much cover— where were they? She lurked behind a table near the door. Behind her was clear to the wall. They had to be around the corner, or somewhere in front of her-- _there_.

It was one man. He was backstopped by a large tank, probably full of chemicals, and was probably counting on that to keep her from shooting. Obligingly, she switched one of her guns for a knife, and flung it at him. It took him in the chest. He grabbed at it frantically, then toppled forward. She would have expected him to be faking, but he landed on the knife and it drove deeper into his body. No one conscious could experience that and not react.

Probably.

She crept out of cover. The room was divided into two by the hallway outside; it stopped about two-thirds of the way through the length of the room. She couldn’t see the other side, but that meant the last man couldn’t see her. She checked her half of the room carefully anyway. Getting killed by a mattress fetishist would be sloppy.

The man she’d knifed was definitely dead. She eased around the end of the hallway and— _what in_ hell—! She nearly shot it before she realized the misshapen monster was a man, covered in some dark, sticky gunk that had him halfway fastened to the floor, stretching and straining to tug it far enough to let him work a bank of control panels with his freer hand. _Putty arrow. Huh_.

And— that explained the high ceiling. A small rocket stood on a launch pad in the middle of the room, with blue fire glowing underneath it. It was smooth and sleek; any payload door or cargo bay was on the other side.

The man could barely turn around. She moved forward in his extensive blind spot, and read one of the monitors: ‘Data Delivery Rocket Three.’ Three? If Clint had shot down one, where was the third? At least it wasn’t a weapon of some sort-- probably—

Then she saw the other monitor, with the self-destruct counting down from twenty-five.

She’d never make it all the way down the hallway. And those tanks were probably full of explosive chemicals.

The man hit a button with an air of finality. The launch pad started to shake. He turned, with difficulty, and she realized he’d known she was there all along. He smiled. “Goodbye, Black Widow.”

She sprinted for the launch pad, leapt over the ring of blue fire, expecting searing pain— but it was cold— and slammed into the side. She grabbed the two stabilizer fins with her hands and struggled for purchase with her feet. This would probably end with her dashed against the side of the lift tube—

The man’s angry scream was drowned out by the sudden _roar_. Then there was only the acceleration. A merciless force pressed her down— she was peppered with something sharp-- her body dropped, her arms extended, she clung by her fingers— fire, now hot— no air— couldn’t breathe— light, then darkness and echoes, then bright light— she was falling— she was climbing—

She waited a precious second too long to let go, then lost another half-second panicking when she realized how high she was. She couldn't hang on much longer, and the longer she did, the harder she would hit— She forced her fingers to open. Now she was really falling—

She braced for impact and probable death—

She saw fire at the bottom of the launch tube—

Something flashed across her field of vision and stayed put. She grabbed desperately— and arrested her fall with a hard _wrench_.

Her fingers burned. They’d gone hot-cold-hot within seconds, and then gotten the impact of the rope, turning her fall into a pivot around a point. She lost a couple of layers of skin off her hand as she revolved. She reached up and grabbed it with the other hand. She dangled, and took in the reality of being alive. _Breathe two three four five. Out two three four five six seven. In two three four five. Breathe with me, Romanova._

_… what?_

The arrowhead had anchored firmly in the peak of the ridge above the base. She’d been temporarily deafened by the launch, the rush of the wind, and adrenaline. Now she heard the explosions below. The rock started to shake.

“Widow?”

“Yeah,” she grunted.

Clint had fired at a target higher than himself. She let go with one hand, pulled the cord out of her utility bracelet, fastened it to the other bracelet, and wriggled until she overcame the friction. As she accelerated, the bracelets dug into her wrists. With her whole body weight dangling from her hands, it was hard to breathe.

The rope vibrated. She looked over her shoulder to see fire coming out of the base. The ridge was crumbling. She just needed another second—

She slid and fell onto the rock outcropping where Clint had set up. Her fingers shook so badly it took her two tries to unfasten her bracelet. She tapped her earpiece to take it off constant transmit. “Thanks for the save. I was sure I was dead.”

He nodded.

“Hell of a shot.”

He gave her a cheeky grin. “That’s my job.”

She crouched down, then gave up and sat down. The adrenaline was still in her system. _Breathe two three four five. Out two three four five six seven._

“I got a hit on the rocket, but it was shielded from EMPs. Should’ve used an explosive.” He sounded disgruntled.

She frowned. “When the hell did you have time?”

“All this adoration, it’s like my fan club from the circus reunited.”

“You— _I_ —“ He’d saved her life. She didn’t glare.

“He knew I was there,” she did say after two more careful breaths. “And knew who I was.”

They looked at each other. “God _dammit_ ,” Clint said, “I hate these bastards.”

“But they weren't speaking German.” She still thought she'd heard Spanish... and except for raw hands, cuts in her exposed skin, and wrenched shoulders, she was fine. Was she getting better at surviving Hydra? Or _had_ that been Hydra?

“I didn't see any prisoners inside,” she added.

“I called the rocket into HQ while you were on the rope. They're dealing with it. Sounded kinda pissed.”

“I just rode a rocket out of a collapsing cave. Ask me how much I care.” She struggled to stand. He offered a hand; she took it, and let him give her a start.

“You’re shooting with your other arm.”

“Less stress on my shoulder.” He released the tail of the rope arrowhead, then released the rope. It dropped off the outcropping. “I did bring that drone down. Let’s have a look. Unless anyone’s coming out from there?”

She shook her head. “Two of them were dead before the self-destruct. The third was stuck to the floor. No way he made it out.”

Normal people probably would have considered Clint’s grin inappropriately cheerful for the subject matter, but there weren’t any around. “I love that arrow.”

They descended to the ground below and started for the downed drone. “So,” she said. “Fan club?”

“Don’t know if you noticed, but the rocket was also moving surprisingly fast. The drone didn’t have that weird fire going on, though. R&D will want to get their hands on the engine.”

She smiled.

Another _booooom_ as something else in the secret base went up. She frowned, and switched channels. “HQ, this is Delta Two.” She gave their approximate coordinates.

“Go ahead, Delta Two.”

“Be advised, the complex under investigation has self-destructed, taking a number of chemical tanks with it. We don’t know what was in them. Release is a possibility. Recommend liaising with the local authorities and letting them know the situation.”

“Delta Two, we don’t have the manpower to scramble an evacuation team because you screwed up.”

She frowned. “HQ, that wasn’t my recommendation, but S.H.I.E.L.D. was going to destroy the base anyway.”

“Delta Two, enemies might have informants among the locals.”

“Then they'll find out about the base soon enough anyway.”

Pause. “I’ll get in touch with Logistics. HQ out.”

She frowned in the general direction of Roswell. “They get damn touchy every time something goes wrong for us.”

“They’re stuck at desks coordinating missions they could never pull off, so they go on power trips.”

“Mmm.”

They reached the downed drone, at the base of a cliff. The rock had backstopped most of the debris. Clint handed her an evidence bag from the plane.

They gathered up the biggest pieces and turned to the drone itself. One side was smashed in pretty well, but one of the struts was intact enough that they could lift it between them. “How’s the shoulder?” Natasha studied at the wreckage to see if it would do anything nasty to them. It looked clean. She grabbed the metal and hoisted.

“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m using the other one.”

“I had noticed.”

He grunted. “It’s _fine_.”

She recognized the tone as something that had come out of her own mouth many times, and didn't press the subject as they headed back to the plane. She listened to the fading sounds of the collapsing base. “We need a team out here for analysis. Who knows what was in that facility.”

“You.”

“I didn’t stop to ask for their inventory list.”

They reached the rise where the plane--

Someone had found it.

A man and a woman were standing on the other side of the canyon, obviously waiting. They were armed, but not holding any weapons-- yet. Their uniforms were unmarked, functional, and unfamiliar. Not Hydra's uniform, and as far as S.H.I.E.L.D. knew, Hydra only recruited the whitest of the white. Mexican commandoes? Where was the rest of their team?

“Give us the drone,” the woman said in accented English.

Clint shifted his grip on the frame like he was considering it. That left her supporting more weight, which gave her an idea what he was thinking. Could she hold up the whole thing if he dropped it to go for his bow? He had the advantage in raw upper-body strength, but he also had the more versatile weapon. Natasha could shoot deliberate near-misses, and non-critical parts of the body; Clint could do that too, plus he had fancy arrowheads.

She shifted her stance, pulling the drone towards her just slightly: _Yes_. “Who are you?”

“Someone who wants that drone,” the man said.

_Thank you for that incredibly informative statement._

“What will you give us for it?” Clint asked.

The other man and woman exchanged looks. “We’ll leave you alive.”

“If you were going to kill us, you would’ve done it from a distance, before we saw you.” He slowly let her take more and more of the weight, while keeping his hand in the same place.

“What do you want it for?” Natasha asked.

“My grandmother’s having a junk sale,” the other woman said. “I wanted to bring her something nice for it.”

“We heard a big explosion over that way.” Clint tilted his head to keep up the fiction he was still holding the drone. “Probably you could find something pretty nice over there.”

“The drone,” the man said.

She and Clint moved towards the plane together without bothering to answer. The other pair twitched. Clint dropped the drone to get his bow in hand, arrow nocked, before their guns finished the arc up. Natasha bolted backwards towards the ramp. The woman was aiming at Clint; Clint was aiming between the two of them. “I don’t have to hit either of you to kill you both.” The arrowhead was blinking.

She reached the protection of the plane. She hauled the drone into the plane, and half-raised the ramp-- Clint could scramble through the gap. Then, watching the hatch, she backed towards the cockpit and turned on the engines for an emergency power-up. She took two seconds to lash the drone down so it wouldn't slide around and crush them, then looked out— where was Clint—

She looked back just as he hauled himself over the ramp and hit the door close. “I don’t think they’re gonna shoot us—“ He dropped his bow behind the pilot’s chair and swung into the seat.

She strapped herself in. “-- but we should still get out of here fast.” Outside, the woman and the man were standing there, watching them. She hated making such a slow escape under observation. The other woman had a long rifle across her back, which could get through the plane if she hit the right spot. The jet's weapons were much stronger. But...

They eked out enough engine power to climb. Suddenly the woman swung her rifle off her back and aimed at the plane, taking it twice in the starboard side. Clint banked hard, and they pulled away.

She activated the comm. “HQ Roswell, this is Strike Team Delta, inbound.” She gave them a brief summary of the mission.

The comm crackled. “Strike Team Delta, you’ve been diverted to Missouri. You’ll take on a passenger there.”

“HQ, this is Delta One. We took some minor damage to the starboard side, please have mechanic standing by for eval, or another plane.”

“We copy, Delta One.”

They crossed the border. “That’s the smoothest mission we’ve ever pulled against Hydra.”

Clint shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Yep.”

“It feels...” she frowned. “Incomplete.”

He made a non-committal noise.

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s bases ran on a skeleton crew for Christmas, but the staff still worked efficiently— the fuel truck rolled out while they were taxiing, and the mechanic was waiting. Coulson was also waiting, but he didn't look very happy to be there. He'd probably intended to be home for Christmas. Well, Natasha hadn't intended to ride a rocket today; he'd survive.

She grabbed a med kit from the plane on her way down the ramp. “What’s this about?”

“We brought down the rocket over an uninhabited part of north Texas. Crypto is still working on its insides, but they pulled its destination from the flight computer: Centralia, Pennsylvania.”

She frowned as they headed for the main building. The name wasn’t familiar. “What’s there?”

“Not much of anything.”

“Centralia?” Clint said at the same time. “You’re sending us to Hell for Christmas?”

“Been there before?” Coulson asked.

“Once.”

Coulson went on before she could ask why it was hell: “We took out its comms before we downed it. Whoever’s waiting on the other end knows something has gone wrong, but they don’t know the rocket was captured—“

“What if they’re hacking into military radar to watch for it?” she asked.

“We think the rocket was designed to evade radar. We had a hard enough time finding it with eyes in the sky. So. Whoever that rocket was for may still be hoping for it to arrive. Your job is to get there before that window expires.”

“That thing was damn fast, Coulson,” Clint said.

“Unnervingly… fast,” she agreed.

Coulson gave her a curious look. “So you'll take off again as soon as you’re refueled, and push the engines as hard as they’ll go. And then Barton will drive after we land.”

“Shouldn't we just take another plane?”

“You have one of the new series, it's faster than anything on the ground here.”

“Any idea who is waiting for it? Us?” Clint asked.

Coulson shook his head. “Nothing.”

“What happened back at the site?” she asked.

“No chemical releases. No further disturbance. We have a team on their way to pick up any clues.”

They reached a briefing room. She took the last opportunity in who knew how long, to use a real toilet. Coulson continued when she got back. “The Mexican government is following up on the same leads, hoping to trace any connection Hydra made on their side. Sounds like you already met the leaders of their task force.” He scrolled quickly through pictures on a tablet and stopped at a pair that looked familiar.

Natasha studied them as she opened the med kit: the same tall man, hair longer than any military’s regulations, and a long scar down his temple; the same short woman, with dark braided hair, and dark eyes, and high cheekbones. “Yeah, that’s them. Who are they?” One drawback to her uniform: her sleeves were too stiff to roll up. She unzipped and tugged down her top, tore open an antiseptic wipe, and started dabbing at the numerous cuts and abrasions on her arms. They'd been burning distractingly the whole way back. At least the uniform had kept the high-velocity debris from turning her arms into hamburger meat.

“Ostensibly, Manuel Rodriguez and Maria Perez, but those are probably pseudonyms. Our own intel puts Maria as from Chiapas— maybe a Zapatista once. By various accounts, Manuel was Spanish special forces, Mexican special forces, a drug smuggler, or a commando who infiltrated a bunch of drug smugglers. Possibly all of them. The two of them are supposed to be very good.”

There was something about the pair of them that was familiar, the memory of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, but it wasn't their appearances, and she couldn't place it. “That's why they didn’t shoot us to get the drone. They’re ‘good guys.’” She cleaned the cuts on her neck, then starting gingerly picking tiny bits of pointy debris out of her scalp.

“She’s a hell of a shot, though,” Clint said. “She nearly took out the starboard sensor array on the quinjet before we got up.”

“I thought she was firing randomly.” She strained to wipe the part of her back that stung.

He shook his head. “Nope. She couldn’t have known where it was, either, no one else has the quinjet plans— but she guessed the right area.”

Coulson tilted his head. “Refueling’s almost done.” He tugged the visible earpiece off and inserted one of the smaller, invisible kinds.

She did her back again, because she couldn’t see it. It _felt_ clear. “Barton?”

“Why are they sending you along?” Clint stood behind her, took the wipe, and made two quick passes across a spot she'd missed. Then his fingers unerringly found the aching spot at the crown of her head, and she felt a sharper stab of pain, then relief, as he pulled free whatever had lodged there. Brief pressure-- his fingers, or the wipe-- but she knew it wasn't going to bleed much. “Done.”

“Because we learned the hard way to take Hydra very seriously. And because someone needs to make the two of you keep your clothes on.”

They looked at him. Then at each other. Then mutually decided to ignore that indignity. She bandaged the deepest cuts and zipped up her uniform.

They headed for the plane, but Coulson peeled off. “I need to pick up some mission supplies. I’ll meet you at the plane.”

Neither of them were slow, and the armory was not far out of their way, but they still reached the plane at the same time Coulson did. Natasha muffled a laugh when she saw what Coulson considered ‘mission supplies.’

Coulson shrugged. “It is Christmas.”

“It’s the 23 rd .” They did the pre-flight check again, abbreviated since they’d left the computer on. While things were running, she turned and poured herself some of the coffee.

“It’s the Christmas season.” Coulson hit the door button and strapped himself in.

“What’s the point of having a Christmas season? We don’t have a, a New Year’s season or a Halloween season.”

“Religious thing,” Clint said, surprising her.

Coulson the minister’s son nodded. “Originally the church celebrated it. Retailers picked up on it. Small children anxious for their presents picked up on it. It’s something to do besides sulk about winter.”

They started taxiing.

“One of my, ah…” Coulson hesitated. “One of my sisters complains every year about how Halloween candy appears in the stores in early September, so you could say there’s a Halloween season, too. Again, young children love it.” He glanced at Clint’s grin. “And other people who strongly resemble young children in many ways.”

“You’re just jealous of my youthful attitude and _joie de vivre_.” Clint reached up for the enhanced radar switches.

“I’m nothing of the sort.”

Patches of snowy ground started to appear as they flew northeast. “So,” Clint said. “I thought when Hydra dug in in Budapest, that was shocking and unusual because they were on American soil. How have they established themselves in Pennsylvania less than two years after we kicked their asses so badly?”

“There might not even be anything there,” Coulson said. “It might be a dead drop, meant to be collected later. An abandoned town would be good for that. It might just be a small outpost. It could be a sleeper cell and they’ve been there for decades. Or they could just be tenacious little buggers.”

“Why’s the town abandoned?” Natasha asked.

“Mining accident.”

After a minute, she decided to share the observations that had been bothering her since they'd left: “I'm not sure that _was_ Hydra.”

“Why not?” Coulson asked.

“They weren't speaking German, and there were so few of them.”

“I thought you said it was a trap,” Clint said.

“It was. The man knew my call sign... and I think their conversation at the end was to lure me inside, because they started speaking English. But unless Hydra is really down on their luck, they normally would have had a small army waiting for me. And if they _are_ really down on their luck, how did they make a subterranean rocket launching facility?”

Neither Clint nor Coulson could answer that. They needed more information.

When they landed, there was a S.H.I.E.L.D. car waiting for them, with a radar detector on the dash. Clint accelerated to about ninety-five.

“R&D made it through the rocket’s reinforced payload bay,” Coulson reported after a while. “They’ve found biological samples.”

“What… kind of samples?” Natasha asked.

“They’re probably from the women. But we can’t exclude the possibility that it’s a new super weapon. It could be dangerous to anyone who came into contact with them.”

“Define ‘contact.’”

“Something you’d like to share, Agent Romanoff?” Coulson sounded resigned.

“I came into contact with the rocket. But if it was sealed so well that it took this long to get inside, I doubt the samples had leaked to the outside.”

“… define 'contact,'” Coulson echoed.

“The base was self-destructing. My only way out was to ride the rocket up.”

“Is that your ‘I didn’t want to know’ face, sir?” Clint asked.

Coulson shook his head. “No. And watch the road.”

They parked south of the town and hid the car-- difficult at this time of year, but a grove of pine trees provided sufficient cover. Then they headed north. “We’ll split up for recon—“

They came to the edge of a road, deserted and heavily overgrown. It looked like an old highway. Scrawled in chalk on the pavement were a variety of geometric symbols, plus the words, “the ghost woman with bloody face.” She saw a sign farther up the road: “WARNING. DANGER. UNDERGROUND MINE FIRE. WALKING OR DRIVING IN THIS AREA COULD RESULT IN SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH. DANGEROUS GASES ARE PRESENT. GROUND IS PRONE TO SUDDEN COLLAPSE.”

“Oh,” she said. This explained the smoke rising from the ground in several places. “This’ll be fun.”

Clint went east and north; Coulson made vague noises when she asked where he was going; she went west and north, stepping carefully. A thermometer, buried in the ground, read 184° F. She made it to the top of a rise and looked down on the town. It didn’t deserve the name: the streets were there, but most of the buildings were gone. It wasn’t entirely abandoned, though— a few vehicles were parked outside one of the few buildings still standing. As she watched, a man came out of the house, looked around, opened the back of the SUV, and took out a paper grocery bag. He closed the door and carried the bag back into the house.

She made it to the north side without seeing anyone else, or seeing anything suspicious. If Hydra was in one of the buildings down below, they would be egregiously obvious to the few locals who still lived there. But what if they were _all_ Hydra? Infiltrate and replace the remains of a town?

She found Coulson sitting on an old tree stump, watching the grid below. “Anything?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Clint appeared a few minutes later with a similar report. “What now?”

“We wait,” Coulson said. “If they wanted to do anything with that rocket they'd need a heavy truck. Anyone who comes will be obvious.”

They retreated to a hill where they could see the whole town. It was getting dark, and cold. Clint kept watch while she and Coulson went back to the car for a tent, some sleeping bags, and some food.

They got close to the hill. She stopped Coulson-- she couldn’t see Clint. Silently, they put the gear down. She signaled him to go right, and she’d go left. Clint hadn’t called for help. If Hydra had gotten him they’d taken him by surprise. But he’d been watching. Could they have come out of the ground? From a base in the smoky, poisonous fires of the mine? She’d seen graffiti about people who suddenly appeared out of the ground. Tunnels would explain that, and Hydra was crazy enough to try it. She and Coulson would need suits and gas masks—

“I’m up in the tree.” Clint was definitely amused.

She didn’t move until she picked out his silhouette. She rolled her eyes, and went back for the stuff.

Coulson left to scout a little farther north. She put up the small tent and camouflaged it with downed branches and dried leaves. Clint, with the best night vision, continued to watch. She crawled inside one of the sleeping bags and fell asleep.

She heard movement in the middle of the night, and grabbed for a weapon. “Barton?” she murmured.

“Not Barton.” Coulson’s voice was unusually dry. The other sleeping bag rustled as he crawled inside. She shifted towards the side of the small tent, not used to Coulson’s presence like she was Clint’s. But she soon fell asleep again without caring how close he was.

The cold woke her. Her face was cold. Why was the tent flap open?. She looked up quickly— but Coulson was sitting outside on the stump, profile— surprisingly stern. Unhappy?

She looked down. Clint couldn’t have been sleeping long, but his eyes were blinking open. “Why’d you open the tent?”

“Didn't.”

She looked at Coulson. Then she brought her mouth down to Clint’s ear. “What’s with Coulson?”

“Dunno.” Then his expression softened. “’s Christmas. Probably meant to spend it with his family.”

Oh. She watched Coulson for a minute. “Then let’s find this bastard so he can.”

Clint smiled.

But the Hydra agent, if she or he were there, was staying out of sight. Natasha went for another hike around the outskirts of town. Nothing. When it was her turn to keep watch, she took the binoculars and climbed Clint's tree. Then she waited, and tried to come up with an effective cover story that would work on the few people down below.

At dusk, she came down and Clint went back up. Coulson was putting away a deck of cards, but she held her hand out, and he dealt them instead.

They played silently until it was dark enough to satisfy her. She checked all her weapons and slipped down the ridge, headed for the town. She hesitated near the first sinkhole she came to, remembering her theory about the Hydra base. But it was too hot and too gassy to risk going closer. The Red Room had never taught her how not to need oxygen.

She made a circuit of all the buildings that were still standing. Nothing unusual. No sign of Hydra. No facilities that looked like they had anything to do with rockets or human experimentation. She frowned, and took the long way back to their camp site.

She passed another thermometer-- and stopped. This one was different. The angle? Something not quite right... She pried at the casing. Why was it way out here in the middle of the woods, away from the footprint of the old town?

Finally the thing opened. _Is this a new innovation in thermometers that I was unaware of_ ? A second panel sat beneath the casing, with temperature readouts, what looked like an energy flow diagram, an illustration of a tank surrounded by green lights, and an output meter. _They’re producing power from the heat_. She took a picture for R &D. Then she replaced the casing and searched the area. Nothing— not even a footprint. She widened her radius. But it was hard to avoid concluding that she’d been the only one near the power station since the last thaw.

She went back and told Coulson what she’d found. Clint listened over the earpieces. “Barton?” Coulson murmured when she was done.

“I’m good here. You guys get into trouble, I can cover you.”

“Don’t overstrain your shoulder,” Coulson warned.

“Better that than either of you dead.” Clint’s voice was flat.

Coulson’s lips pressed together in a thin line. _Could have told you that months ago, Coulson._ “Let’s go.”

She showed him the fake thermometer. He crouched over it. “You searched the town?”

“I didn’t go into any of the inhabited houses. Everything else is clear. Could Hydra be working with the residents? Or _be_ the residents?”

“I doubt it. They don’t like outsiders. An understandable outcome of having your town crawling with government inspectors and reporters for a decade. We need to search it again. And I’ll call it in.”

She nodded. She knew Coulson wasn’t questioning her abilities, he just didn't have any better ideas.

But when they met again near the north side of town, she saw from his expression that he hadn’t found anything. “We need better equipment. There may be gas levels or patterns of leaks that’ll tell us—“

“Hey!”

They both turned quickly. Down below, not looking directly at them, but scanning the area, was the same man Natasha had seen outside the house. Light-skinned and light-haired... which _could_ be innocuous. “You in the suit. I know you're up there.”

She vanished into the pine woods to her right, and covered Coulson as he stepped out of cover. “How'd you know I was up there?”

“I've been in enough battles to know when someone's watching me. And I know this hill has the best view of town.” The man was tall and skinny, with blond hair liberally sprinkled with grey and a weedy mustache to match. “Now, I caught someone snooping around my house a few days ago. And I kinda think you have something to do with it. Maybe you're with him, maybe you're not. Why don't you come down and we'll talk about it.”

 _Coulson, what are you doing?_ Coulson stepped forward a few feet, hands not obviously near his gun. “Tell me about this man.”

“I think I'd rather ask the questions,” the man said.

“That wasn't actually a question,” Coulson pointed out.

“Yeah, well. I brought some buddies with me, and I don't want to have to march you down this hill at gunpoint. But I will if I have to.”

Her aim was fixed on the man's center of mass. She waited for Coulson to tell her to shoot. But he didn't, and she wasn't surprised. Instead, he walked down the hill. “What branch were you?” he asked, like they were making polite conversation.

The man gave him a sharp look. “I'm asking the questions.”

“You haven't asked a single question yet,” Coulson said. “How do I know you're not taking me somewhere to shoot me?”

“S'pose you don't,” the man said. “You don't look like FBI. CIA?”

“Not any more,” Coulson said. “Did a stint after the Rangers.”

The man's eyes narrowed. Natasha had never heard Coulson mention his time in the Rangers before, and she knew it wasn't an accidental slip here. “So what are you?”

“A man named Phil.” Coulson held his obviously empty hand out-- slowly. “Nice to meet you.”

The man snorted. “Denny,” he said after a minute, and actually shook Coulson's hand. And then made Coulson walk in front of him down the hill.

Natasha waited, motionless, as they headed for the house she'd seen Denny at earlier. She watched for the “buddies” Denny had claimed to have with him, but didn't see anyone. As he'd said himself, this hill had the best view of town, and Clint was camped out on the other high ground.

She tapped her earpiece. “Delta Prime just walked off with possible hostile,” she murmured. “They've gone inside. I'm following.”

“Copy.”

If it were a trap, that house could be swarming with agents, and Coulson was about to walk into it. Which would be the point. After Munich and Budapest, Hydra knew how dangerous Strike Team Delta was. They also knew how far they would go to protect each other. Coulson would be a valuable hostage and they all knew it.

“-- English is a lot better than his.” A new voice in her ear-- Denny. Coulson had locked his earpiece on.

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“I don't know. Why _doesn't_ that surprise you, Phil?”

“The hell is that?” Clint whispered.

“The unknown. A vet, I think-- he's holed up in town below.” She left her cover and crept down the hill. She reached the edge of town as Coulson and Denny reached the house.

Over the earpiece, she heard a door close. “Found 'im,” Denny announced. There was a general murmur-- five or six voices, all male. “This is Phil. Or so he says.”

“Good evening,” Coulson said pleasantly.

“Evenin'.” A new voice, with a distinct drawl-- somewhere in the Tidewater area. “You know anything about the angry German man in the basement?”

“Probably. How long has he been down there?”

“Two days,” Denny said.

“And when we caught 'im,” the second voice added, “he had almost as many weapons as the Sarge, here.”

“So you caught a heavily armed man who seemed like he might be a foreign national, in a place where he had no business being,” Coulson said, “and you didn’t call the police?”

Someone snorted. “Nope,” the Southern man said. “Not big on getting 'em involved. Plus, he had a state trooper's number in his phone.”

“Now, how did you recognize that?” Coulson asked.

“Damn, but you're nosy.” It was a third man, this one sounding faintly New Jersey, and amused.

Natasha reached a tree where she could have a partial view in the south window without being seen, and pulled herself up to lie along a limb. Eight men occupied every piece of the old, shabby furniture in the living room. The Christmas tree in the corner, the top smushed against the ceiling, was garishly decorated with what looked like a complete lack of coherence. But then, she was not an expert at Christmas.

The men were a varied bunch, but the average age was about sixty. Four were white, three were black, and the youngest man looked Latino. Two of them were holding... _harmonicas?_ Oh, no.

“Let me talk to this man, and I can satisfy all our speculation about who he is,” Coulson said. “... where is he?” She couldn't see stairs from the window; apparently Coulson couldn't see them from inside the house, either.

The biggest man, who seemed to have been the victim of an unfortunate neck theft, got up and pulled his chair to the side, revealing a trapdoor.

The trapdoor flew open. She heard the _click_ of a number of guns being unsafetied. “Hawkeye,” she murmured as she leveled her own gun through the window at the large blond man lunging out of the basement.

“Got 'em covered.”

Clint wasn't done speaking before Coulson grabbed the man, dodging his blow, hauled him up, and took him down with one punch. The man was still conscious, but stunned and winded; Coulson took advantage to force him down the steps-- ladder?-- and followed him into the basement. “We won't be long,” he said to the group of men.

“Damn, son,” No-Neck said as he closed the trapdoor again. “Guy's bigger than he is.”

Denny's reply was cut off by the closing door.

Silence. Had the connection cut? No— she heard footsteps. “Hello,” Coulson said conversationally. “Feeling more cooperative?”

A new voice spat a string of filthy German curses. If this man _wasn't_ Hydra, he was a more convincing fake than the ones at the base in Mexico.

“What are you doing in Centralia?”

“Laying plans,” the man growled in German.

Coulson sighed. “Yes, I know about Hydra’s megalomania already. Tell me the rest.”

Had she known Coulson spoke German? She _knew_ better than to underestimate him.

“Fuck you.”

Sudden movement— blows— gasping for breath— she was out of the tree when Coulson’s voice came back over the line, a little winded but calm. “That was a fun interlude. Are you going to talk now?”

“Sent here,” the man bit out, like he was having trouble breathing. “To establish a base. Good spot. Few people. Power— from the— fire.”

“So what happened?”

“Explosion.” The man gasped. There was a rustle of cloth. When he spoke again, he was breathing a little easier. “Others died. Only I survived. Lost our communication equipment. Dead drops, gone. Fucking _S.H.I.E.L.D._ got to them. No contact with home.”

“Well, I’m here to bring you back to civilization.”

The man spat something anatomically impossible. Natasha knew; she'd tried it.

“What about your friends in Mexico?”

“What friends in Mexico?” the man growled.

“We found a base in northern Mexico full of Hydra gear.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“Hmm. Well, they're plenty willing to tell us about _you._ And the plans you drew up for them. In return for... leniency.”

More remarkably creative curses. “Affiliates,” the man snarled. “Fucking losers from Spain or something. Hardly _pure_ . Incompetent. The kidnapping was _their_ idea. Couldn't even pull that off.”

It was such an old trick Natasha was surprised it had worked, but the man had been kept isolated in a basement for two days-- maybe he was off balance.

“Do you have any ambushes waiting?”

The Hydra agent started in on what he was going to do to Coulson and 'those bastards upstairs,' in graphic detail. Then his voice cut off suddenly. “If you try that with me, I'll shoot your kneecaps.” Coulson's voice was pleasant. “And if you try it with them, I'll stand back and let them kick your ass. Get up.”

This time the scuffling went on for about ten seconds. She wasn't going to sit in the tree and wait for Coulson to either call her in or get himself killed. By the time the fighting ended-- with a _thud_ \-- and she heard his breathing again, lighter than the Hydra agent's, she was at the back door. A simple lock, no alarm system-- Denny probably relied on his alertness and his weapons stockpile for security.

She heard Coulson fumbling with the trap door, and used the noise as cover to pick the lock. “I had to knock him out again.” He didn't sound apologetic-- and now she was inside, in the dark back entryway, and his voice was coming in both her ears. “I'd like to make sure his bonds are secure before I bring him back up. Where's the duct tape?”

There was muttering along the lines of “thought you had it,” but then, from the sound of it, they produced three separate rolls. The trap door opened. She heard footsteps on the ladder, and then it closed again.

She eased back into the shadows as one of the men came into the dark kitchen for more beer and a plate of Christmas cookies-- there were four plates lined up on the counter, and from the amount of plastic wrap in the trash can, there had been more.

Something went _click_ in the living room. She ducked. Instead of an explosion, a weird, high-pitched voice started singing, “ROCKING AROOOOOOUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE AT THE CHRISTMAS PARTY HOP...”

“Aw, turn that damn thing off!” someone called over the noise. “The guy in the basement murders the spook, we won't know until he comes after us.”

“We could take him in two seconds.”

“Yeah, but I might spill my beer.”

Apparently this was a convincing argument. The singing _thing_ was switched off. The house seemed very quiet suddenly. Then she heard the trap door open again, and a slow _thud-thud-thud_ of something large being hauled up the stairs.

The thumping stopped. The trap door closed. “Damn, son,” No-Neck said again.

“Don't sound so impressed,” Denny said drily. “He was a Ranger.”

“Hmm,” someone said after a very long moment.

“So,” Coulson said pleasantly. “What are you all?”

“Because the other men in black are gonna ask?”

“Yes, but I'm also curious.”

“We're just having a Christmas party,” said New Jersey man.

“With lots of weapons,” Coulson said.

“Brings the holiday spirit.”

Huh. Maybe she understood Christmas better than she thought.

“We're the ones in our old unit who don't really have anywhere else to be,” Tidewater man said. “So we come out here to spend Christmas with the Sarge 'cause he's a stubborn ass.”

“Damn straight,” Denny said. “I call it 'Sergeant Peppin's Lonely Hearts Club Band.'”

“Of course you do,” Coulson sighed. “I'm afraid the other spooks will want to talk to you. But I'll tell them that on no account should they disrupt your... Christmas party.”

“Right on,” said New Jersey man.

“Merry Christmas, spook,” Tidewater man said. “We got you an angry German. You're welcome.”

“Merry Christmas,” Coulson said. “Exactly what I wanted.”

“Take some Christmas cookies,” Denny said. Plastic rustled. Then Coulson grunted with effort; it sounded like he'd hoisted the unconscious man over his shoulder. That was a terrible idea. If and when the captive woke up, he'd easily be able to overbalance himself, or both of them, or bite Coulson.

She stepped forward into the doorway to the living room. “Want some help, boss?”

Faster than she expected, most of the men were pointing guns at her. She was actually impressed. She stayed still.

Coulson was the only one not surprised to see her. He just looked resigned. “Might as well.”

She took one step forward, slowly, and only took another step when it became clear none of them were going to shoot her. The guns weren't put away, but most of them were pointing at the floor, now.

“How'd you get in here?” Denny asked.

She smiled sweetly as she grabbed the Hydra agent's arms and hauled him so she and Coulson were carrying him between them. “Through the door.”

Denny's eyebrows scooched together, and his gun drifted up.

“Don't worry,” she added over her shoulder. It made her skin crawl to turn her back on a room full of armed men she'd just irritated, but she wasn't going to show it. “I locked it behind me.”

Denny grunted.

“You're welcome.”

This grunt sounded closer to a growl. “I don't like people breaking into my house, lady.”

“And I don't like people threatening my boss.” _Or calling me lady_.

“... guess that's fair,” he said, surprising her. “But get out.”

She decided to be professional and stop baiting him. She followed Coulson out. When they were about fifty yards from the front door, he stopped. “I'm not carrying him like a sack of oats.” He shifted his grip on--

She doubled over in pain. Hydra-- the man'd punched her in the stomach-- she kept one hand on his other arm-- forced herself to grab for his free one-- hauled him backwards--

But she was still off-balance, and stunned. He kicked Coulson in the head-- Coulson only half-deflected-- the man got his feet down and used that as leverage to pull away from her-- she lunged for him, saw the knife in his hand, and dove past him to tackle Coulson out of danger--

The crossbow bolt took him high in his right shoulder. His eyes widened, his mouth opened, he shouted something about _the damned archer_ , and then he fell over twitching.

She rolled off Coulson and grabbed her gun. Coulson was still obviously stunned, but already had his gun out.

“Not dead. Just drugged,” Clint said in their ears.

“Thanks,” Coulson panted.

“Sounds like you've got a fan club again, after all,” she said.

“Widow, I don't think you're clear on the concept _._ ”

“Where'd he get the knife?” she demanded. She started roughly patting the unconscious man down.

“I must've been sloppy in the dark.” Coulson sounded pained to admit it. He stuck his fingers in the man's mouth, looking for a suicide capsule. “Or overconfident because I knew he'd already been searched. I should have kept the duct tape.”

She gave him a Look, and tossed him some cord from her uniform. They tied the man up again, very, very well; then they carried him away.

Clint met them at the base of the tree. “I want to confirm the story about the explosion,” Natasha said. “We need this guy to tell us where the base was.”

“Actually, I think I have an idea,” Coulson said. “Did you see the spot that looked like a cave-in?”

She nodded. “You think that’s the base?”

“At first I thought it was old, but then I looked at the exposed rock. It’s barely weathered. Hawkeye, you good with the prisoner?”

“Yep.” Clint swung himself up to the lowest branch and nocked another arrow.

At the site of the cave-in, Natasha led the way around the fallen rocks. The cave was warm, after the cool winter air, but she was barely sweating. They were a long way from the fire. Carbon monoxide, odorless and tasteless, was a bigger concern.

She pointed her flashlight at something in the path ahead. A shoe and a foot… and nothing else.

“We’re on the right track,” Coulson said. “I wonder how far from the blast it, ah, traveled?”

She shrugged. “It’s certainly seasonal.”

“It’s a severed foot. How is that seasonal?”

She turned around. “Missile toes.”

He stared at her.

She smiled. “Merry Christmas, Coulson.”

He stared at her.

“Agent Romanoff, keep walking.”

Agent Romanoff kept walking.

They soon found the site of the explosion and confirmed the body count-- from the number of uniforms. None of the other remains were in better shape than the foot. The equipment had been destroyed. She swallowed. It was hard to breathe— the smell from what the animals hadn’t gotten to, or something else. “We done here?”

“We’ll have Forensics send a team.” Coulson’s voice was a little strangled.

They hurried back to fresh air. When they got back to their camp, Clint and the captured agent were in the same places as before. “He didn’t wake up and try to escape?”

Clint gave them a sunny smile. “Oh, he did.”

They hauled the agent and the gear back to the car, checking the ropes frequently. They also gagged the other man, so when he woke up outside of Frackville-- conscientiously belted into the back seat by Coulson-- and started ranting, all they had to listen to was incoherent grunting. After a while he started drooling on the gag, and stopped trying to talk.

On deserted, pre-dawn, Christmas morning roads, they made it back to the plane while it was still dark. Natasha checked the knots again as she hauled the prisoner out of the car, and tied him to a bulkhead as Clint did the pre-flight.

The skies were even less busy than the roads had been. When Clint brought the plane down on the landing pad at the Manhattan base, a disgruntled-looking Security team hauled the Hydra agent away. She watched uneasily, but she couldn't babysit the agent for the rest of her life. She had to trust other people to be competent _sometime_.

The three of them hauled the drone wreckage off the plane and took it down on the elevator to R&D's lobby. Clint frowned. “It's missing somethin.'”

“We didn't leave anything on the plane.”

Clint shook his head and disappeared into the cubicles. He came back a minute later with a bag of decorative plastic bows, and an evil grin.

“Absolutely not,” Coulson said.

“'You're a mean one, Mister Griiiiiinch...'” Clint began to sing, as he took out a bow, peeled off the paper backing, and stuck it on the drone's frame. He continued to sing, and continued to apply bows.

After a minute, she interrupted him. “I don't understand the point of this exercise. Besides making Coulson make the face.”

“We're spreading Christmas cheer.” Clint resumed singing-- unfortunately, louder than before. He crescendoed: “... SAUUUUUUUUUUU--”

Her sense of _not-right_ ness flared right before he stopped. Because that was the _only_ clue she had, she was not surprised when she turned to see Director Fury standing in the doorway, watching. Everything. Silently. She _was_ surprised to see the red hat perched on his head. It did not make him look any less potentially menacing.

Clint cut himself off abruptly. The resulting silence was pointed.

Coulson looked surprised to see Fury, which was itself telling, because Fury could turn up anywhere. His surprise suggested that he had known Fury had meant to be somewhere _specific_... on Christmas morning. Interesting.

“Agent Coulson,” Fury said, after a long, long pause, that made Natasha recall Dr. Rosie's commentary on his melodramatic tendencies.

“Director.” Coulson's voice held almost as much nuance as his steadfast not-looking-at-Clint.

“They said you brought in a Hydra agent.”

“We did, yes.”

“Congratulations on taking out another Hydra cell,” Fury said after a minute.

“Wasn't much left to take out, sir. Apparently the rest were killed when their base collapsed. He said S.H.I.E.L.D. got to some of his dead drops.”

“Hmm. Still. This is the most intact your team has ever come out of a Hydra fight, Agent. Don't sell yourself short.”

“I'm... well aware of that, sir.”

Fury nodded, and turned to leave, the conversation apparently over.

“Merry Christmas, sir!” Clint called after him. Fury's hand twitched in what might have been a wave, or just a twitch.

Coulson looked at Clint, but didn't say anything.

“Why was Fury wearing that hat?” she asked.

“That's above your security clearance, Agent Romanoff.”

“ _What?_ ”

Coulson smiled.

“Kids,” Clint said.

“What?” she repeated.

“There's a thing, for the families of people who get stuck working on Christmas. Fury plays Santa for the kids. Usually done by now, though.”

She opened her mouth. Then she closed it again.

Clint looked at Coulson. “Time you got home, sir.”

“I didn't tell-- never mind,” Coulson sighed. He looked at them, his expression a mixture of resignation, and one of those soft emotions she didn't have enough experience with to identify. “It's a skeleton crew this morning. It will take them a while to refuel. Come on.”

She and Clint looked at each other. He was the first one to start moving. She concealed her obvious weapons and followed them both, out of the base, to the nearest Metro station.

They rode for only a few stops. Coulson seemed to know where he was going very well. Finally he turned down a narrow alley to a small, empty restaurant whose front window was lit up. A little bell tinkled when he opened the door. “Lennox?” he called.

Movement in the back. A little old man, silver-haired, came out. “Phil!”

Clint and Natasha stared as the man came up to Coulson and _gave him a hug._ And Coulson _hugged him back_. Coulson smiled. “Do you think you could do Christmas brunch for my friends here?”

“Of course,” Lennox said. “You came at a good time— the early breakfast just finished about half an hour ago and the crowd won’t be in until later.” He looked Clint and Natasha over. “Sit down, sit down.”

They looked at Coulson. Coulson smiled back at them, or maybe it was a suddenly cheerful doppelgänger of Coulson. “You heard the man. Sit down.”

There was a table in the back where all three of them could sit with their backs pretty much to the wall. Natasha frowned down at the menu. She wanted to ask if this was part of another mission, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t, and Coulson would get that pinched look in his face again. “I can’t be seen in New York. I’m supposed to be in Malibu.”

“Don’t worry. No one will see you.” Coulson opened his menu. “The pancakes are good. Well, everything’s good.”

“Why’s he open?” Clint asked. “This early?”

“He does a Christmas breakfast for a couple of the closest shelters every year. He and his niece. Maddie’s probably gone home for the morning.”

“How do you know them?”

Coulson looked at her. She shrugged. It had been worth a try.

Lennox came back with glasses of water. Natasha didn't drink from hers until she watched Coulson do the same. Coulson obviously trusted him, so she’d… trust Coulson’s trust. It was still hard to bring the glass to her lips.

“What's tempting you?” Lennox asked. “How about the nam khao? My mother's own version, she spent forty years perfecting it.”

Coulson looked at him askance. “Forty years ago your mother was smuggling fugitives out of Vientiane in bushel baskets.”

“And then she passed on the family business,” Lennox said calmly, “and retired to Boca and spent forty years perfecting her shuffleboard and her cooking.”

“Sure.” Clint handed his menu to Lennox. “Nam khao sounds great.”

Lennox looked at her. “I'll have... the pancakes.” She still had not absorbed the strangeness of the situation.

Coulson ordered. Lennox went back into the kitchen. She looked at Coulson. “Is this how you usually spend Christmas?”

“Everyone has their own Christmas traditions, Natasha.”

“Those guys you met, they do that every year?” Clint asked.

“I would imagine so.”

“I liked their Christmas,” she said suddenly. “They were very...”

“Relaxed?” Coulson suggested.

“Drunk?” Clint suggested.

“Armed,” she said finally.

“Hmm,” Coulson said.

The back of the restaurant smelled very good, but there was no sign of their food, yet. Clint began to explain the plot of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas” to her, deliberately ignoring her increasingly pointed expression.

“Is he having me on?” she finally demanded of Coulson.

“Of course not.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“Would I do that, Agent Romanoff?”

She was saved from answering by Lennox's reappearance. He brought not only what they'd ordered, but a surprising number of other dishes. She was glad she'd decided to trust Coulson's faith in him, because it smelled very good. Clint didn’t seem to think any of this was weird, just ate with an enormous appetite. Coulson didn’t seem to think anything about this was weird either. Maybe it was a normal person thing. A normal person thing that Clint also knew about.

Like all these _Christmasy_ things that Clint was describing, or trying to. He was incoherent about half the time as he talked and chewed at the same time, but Coulson's lack of sarcasm was glaringly obvious.

“So is this, um…” She looked down at the food. “Are these normal American Christmas food... things?”

“It varies from region to region,” Coulson said. “All of this is traditional for someone, somewhere. Lennox likes variety.”

“One of my foster—“ Clint shut his mouth abruptly.

They both looked at him.

“One of my… foster parents,” he continued reluctantly. “Made jello salad.”

She frowned. “Jello’s not a fruit or a vegetable. It's made from cow parts.”

“It’s a Midwestern thing. Green jello, cool whip, cherries.”

Natasha’s eyebrows went up.

“Hey, don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.”

 _I’m quite sure I don’t need to try that to knock it_. “Once, I was… out with another girl on a mission,” she offered, “and we killed our mark a day early. He came back early. We had the whole day to hide in his house because our travel documents weren’t until the next day. We found some food in his cupboards and got to sleep. We figured out later it was Christmas.”

That killed the conversation.

Lennox came out with a number of boxes and put all the food they hadn’t eaten into it. Coulson handed the boxes to Clint. “Bring us the bill, please.”

Lennox looked at him.

Coulson narrowed his eyes, and proffered a credit card.

Lennox sighed and took it. He did something at the register and came back a minute later. “Here you are! Merry Christmas!”

Coulson looked at the receipt. “You’ve significantly undercharged us.”

“I’m an old man. Sometimes I get confused.”

“You regularly beat grandmasters at chess.”

“Just the one. Goodbye, Phil, have a great day!”

Coulson left a large handful of cash on the table as a tip and hurried away before Lennox could come up with some other way to refuse his money.

They went back to HQ. Shortly after they got inside, a young agent waylaid Coulson with a report and a message. “The Hydra agent is talking,” Coulson told them, after skimming both.

She frowned. “That was fast.”

“Our best interrogator is on base. And he's bored.”

Clint's face went blank.

“Not torture. Mind games.”

“Mind games can outwit Hydra?” she asked.

“This is his second career. He used to be a therapist who specialized in treating patients from corporate law. His hobby is writing logic puzzles.”

She frowned.

“I try to avoid ever speaking with him,” Coulson admitted.

“So what's Hydra saying?” Clint asked.

“He says the Spanish group didn't know it, but Hydra was primarily using them to set a trap for the two of you.”

Natasha had to resort to her mother tongue for sufficient expletives.

Coulson held up a placating hand. “Hydra wouldn't be forced to use incompetent partner groups if you hadn't done so much damage to them. Repeatedly.”

“We,” Clint corrected him.

Coulson looked amused. “That was a plural 'you,' Agent Barton, I was including you.”

“I was including _you_.”

Coulson blinked, then continued. “Their monomaniacal focus on Strike Team Delta is disturbing, but we can use this now-- use bad intel about you to lure them in like they've been luring us in. Done properly, it could help us pick up the remaining pieces of Hydra.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. has a blind spot about Hydra, Coulson. I don't want us to walk into another trap, but I don't want S.H.I.E.L.D. to send other agents even less likely to survive into that trap, either.”

“I know. Will you trust me to see what I can do? After Budapest, I have some... influence... when it comes to counter-Hydra operations.”

Natasha and Clint glanced at each other. They didn't really have a choice. She shrugged; Clint nodded. Coulson gave them a nod in return.

“Agent Romanoff, your travel back to California has been arranged,” Coulson continued. “Agent Barton...” he looked at Clint. “Get some sleep. Don't make me make that an order.”

“But I--”

Coulson gave him a stern look. “If you think I don't know you're acting like an idiot because you haven't slept for thirty-six hours, then you're losing your touch.”

“What?” she said.

“Rough mission in Azerbaijan,” Clint said. “Sir, there are barely any pilots on the roster today. It'll be hours before someone's free.” He looked at her. She tilted her head a bit-- like he'd needed to ask. “We can take you.”

Coulson visibly hesitated. “You're not coming in.” There was a weird tension under the stern levity in his voice.

“Of course not. Go, put on clothes that don’t smell like smoke.”

The plane had been refueled. They did the pre-flight check for the fourth time in… Natasha had lost track of time. Coulson showed up a few minutes later in a fresh suit, carrying a duffel bag. “Where are we going?” Clint asked.

“There's a small airstrip outside of Worcester.”

It was a short, quiet flight. They didn’t see any people or vehicles waiting. That made sense, that Coulson would want to keep his two worlds separate, and protect the people he loved from the dangers— and the dangerous people— he worked with. They landed and lowered the ramp. She unbelted to stretch her legs, and frowned at Coulson. “Wait.”

He stopped, eyebrows raised.

She stepped into his personal space, tugged the handkerchief out of his pocket, and wiped a long smudge of soot, probably from the cave, from the edge of his face. “There. Now you’re presentable.” She put the handkerchief in his hand.

He eyed her like he didn’t know what to say, then stepped back and said, “Thanks. To both of you. I… appreciate it.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Go eat turkey and sing sappy songs, Coulson.”

“And enjoy the mistletoe,” she added.

Coulson gave her a _filthy_ look and turned to go. At the bottom of the ramp, he stopped. “Put this thing back where you got it. No joyriding.”

“Coulson—“ she said, sounding hurt.

“— would we do that?” Clint finished.

He just shook his head, and walked across the tarmac.

They watched him go. “You got any plans?” Clint asked.

“I have to get back to Malibu.”

“Oh.” He looked a little sad.

 _Sentiment, Barton_ . So what did it say about her that she said, “Coulson _did_ tell us to put it back where we got it, and I can’t fly back to Roswell on my own.”

He met her gaze, and smiled.

*

Murdock probably thought she was snubbing him. But when everyone was back from holiday, Natalie had an answer that Natasha could live with.

Murdock had two people in his office when she went by; one was holding a bag with the logo of the LA County Department of Public Health. They looked like they were leaving, so she waited.

Murdock beckoned her in after they left. “Sorry you had to wait. I'm on a task force for proper disposal of hazardous waste, with the county-- advising them about the liabilities. They were in the area and stopped in for a chat.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“Stark Industries encourages their employees to volunteer. It’s good P.R.”

 _And they need all the good PR they can get to counteract all the times their boss gets drunk and trashes something?_ “I would have pictured you as more of a _pro bono_ public defender type.”

“Oh, I do that too. But I’m… _interested_ in this issue.” He paused. “It was radioactive waste that blinded me when I was a child.”

Natasha blinked several times. _He tracks_ very _well_. Could he see anything at all?

… _how did he know I was_ here _?_

Murdock smiled. It wasn’t an entirely pleasant expression. “You hadn’t realized?”

“I… wondered, but I wasn’t going to ask. I’m… sorry. About the accident.”

He waved her apology away, but some of the lines on his face eased. “I never really got over the ridiculousness of it all. Of all things, you know? It’s like a bad Silver Age superhero origin story. What?”

Natasha had made a soft noise. “Oh... superheroes.” Natalie covered for Natasha’s flub. “It seems everyone’s talking about them since Mr. Stark’s escape. I just think it’s a little overdone.”

“You might be right,” he said after a minute.

“Can I ask— was that why, you became a lawyer?”

“Radioactive waste to the face? Well, sort of. It was more the experience of my father trying to get any compensation for my medical care out of the company responsible.”

“It was difficult?”

“Very. He never won anything, and the experience aged him tremendously. We were too poor to get any good legal help. So.” He visibly shifted his thoughts. “Can I help you with something?”

“I came to take you up on your invitation from before Christmas. If it's still open. How's Wednesday?”

He paused. His expression didn't change, but she sensed surprise. “Wednesday's fine. Meet you there? I don't, ah, drive.”

“I can pick you up.”

“Thanks, but it’s not far.”

“Okay. Seven?”

“Great.” He smiled, and even Natasha had to admit it was a nice smile. “I’m looking forward to it.”

*

The mystery that was Matt Murdock was so frustrating because she couldn't pinpoint what was mysterious _about_ him, besides his sharp senses. She hoped dinner would be educational.

Natalie, if not Natasha, had to admit he was charming, but he seemed distracted. She noticed the bruise at the edge of his shirt. “Did you fall?”

“What?”

“The bruise… between your neck and shoulder?”

“Oh.” He tugged the cloth up over it. “No. I actually get around very well.” He sounded defensive.

“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

“No, I— I’m sorry. I had a bad day. It’s not your fault and I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

Natalie smiled. He couldn’t see, but he would hear it in her voice. “I'm just glad you're not hurt.” Natasha noted that he hadn't told her how he _had_ gotten it, and had very neatly prevented further questions.

Both Natalie and Natasha appreciated that he didn't argue when she asked for separate checks. They walked outside into the cool evening. “Want me to hail you a cab?”

“No, I’m going to walk. Good night, Natalie. Thank you for joining me.”

“It was my pleasure. I’ll see you at the office.”

She let a few days pass to see if he would contact her. He didn’t. She still had questions about him— and she was bored. Right now, this mission had nothing to challenge her beyond surviving petty office politics. So she called him.

“Matt Murdock.”

“Hi, Matt.”

“Natalie!” His voice modulated from professional to warm. “How are you? I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch— we got that criminal negligence case dropped in our laps. You know how it is.”

Natalie did know how it was. Natasha thought it was interesting that he seemed to be trying to hold her at arms’ length and keep her at attention at the same time. “Do you think you’d have your plate cleared enough to have drinks with me tomorrow after work?”

“I’ll make sure it is.” He sounded genuinely pleased.

“Have you ever been to the Bell?”

“No, but I’ve heard good things.”

“Meet there at 7?”

“At 7,” he promised.

She got there a few minutes before the hour and watched for him. Last time, he’d been seated already when she got to the restaurant. Now she waited, for a few seconds, when she saw him appear in the doorway. By the time she got out of her seat, he’d already turned in her direction. Coincidence? She was sitting in the noisier half of the room.

He wasn’t a heavy drinker. They split an appetizer platter and chatted for a while about the office. She tried to get him to talk about New York City some more, but let it go when he seemed reluctant.

He excused himself to the bathroom. The Bell's layout had decorative half-walls throughout the room, giving the illusion of privacy; he navigated them with ease. The half-wall to his right ended… and he made the turn before the tip of his cane, which was sweeping careful arcs in front of him, had actually traversed the empty space.

Why would he lie about being blind? _Had_ he lied? He tracked her face fairly well, but he was bad at eye contact.

The room was getting noisier; they asked for the check. “Would you like to come back to my apartment for coffee?” he asked. “I have a good espresso machine.”

 _‘Espresso machine,' is that what they’re calling it_. Murdock wasn’t McCormack; there was no life hanging in the balance. If he was offering more than coffee, she had no reason to go back with him. But his apartment might provide some answers. If she was concerned he’d put something in her cup, she could switch them, and if he noticed, then she’d have her answer. “Sure. Did you walk here?”

“Yes.”

“My car’s down the street. Does your building have parking?”

“Yes. I don’t know how safe it is, I’ve never used it.”

“It should be safe enough for a little while.” She looked sideways at him. If he was disappointed, he didn’t let it show.

The espresso machine was, admittedly, impressive. Well, it was big and shiny. She looked around the apartment. The place was sparsely decorated. The walls were blank except for a framed piece of fiber work and two metal sculptures. There were two more sculptures on top of the shelf. All of them were intricately textured. The shelf held records, and there was a very expensive-looking sound system against one wall. That all made sense.

The pair of stout sticks hidden far under the couch, visible in reflection in the glass door of the sound system, made less sense. For protection from intruders? How well could Murdock use them?

“Milk or cream?” Murdock asked behind her.

“Cream.”

He got it out of the refrigerator and added some to both mugs. She reached over and took the mug closer to him. He didn’t appear to notice, just gestured to the living room. “Please, sit wherever you want.”

She took the chair across from the couch, and eyed the sticks. It was getting dark, and Murdock— of course— hadn’t turned a light on. She couldn’t see any details. She eyed the cane, leaning against the front door. It, too, was fairly sturdy.

She took a sip. “Mm. This is very good.” She didn’t have to feign her admiration.

“Thank you. It was a labor of love. It took me a long time to distinguish the different sealed flavor syrups at the grocery store, and I kept buying the weirdest ones. You haven’t lived until you’ve accidentally made double-strength espresso with shots of acai and praline.”

“Oh, _God_.”

“I persevered. It was worth it.”

“And you finished those bottles of syrup?”

“I gave them to a coworker with young children. They were very popular, apparently.”

Their conversation was so inane that she was sure he’d asked her up for “coffee.” But when she stood up to leave, he didn’t protest. He walked her to the door, undid the deadbolts, and opened it for her. Then he leaned in, cupped her cheek, and kissed her.

Natasha had gotten out of practice at sublimating her own desires. She was surprised by how much she disliked it. Natasha was stronger than Natalia had ever been, and she'd had to be Natalie for far longer than she'd had to be anyone else. But Natalie wasn't Natasha, so she leaned in instead of pulling away.

Murdock was the one to pull away, after a long, rather wet moment. “You didn’t like that, but you’re pretending you did. Why?”

 _What?_ She forced her reactions down. Natalie channeled Natasha: “I don’t know what you mean, but one thing I _really_ don’t like is people telling me how they think I should feel.”

Murdock smiled, sardonically, and didn’t look convinced. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Asking would have been nice,” Natalie added. “I liked it, though.” To convince him, she stood on tiptoe, placed her own hand on his cheek, and kissed him back— briefly, but firmly.

As soon as she shifted, he pulled away again. “Good night, Natalie. Will you be all right getting to your car?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Good night, Matt.”

She reached her apartment still unsure of what had happened, still unsettled. She was no closer to answers than she had been before, and she had no real avenues to follow up. She didn't have justification to make this an official S.H.I.E.L.D. case. She also knew when facts didn't align with each other.

But she didn't have time to probe deeper; S.H.I.E.L.D. was getting anxious about having a new back door into Stark's systems. She explained to IT security, as patiently as she could, that maintaining her cover was a consideration. When they started to get sarcastic and overconfident about Stark's own security, she gave up, sent it all off to Coulson, and poured herself a drink. Whatever Coulson did, she didn't have to hear anything else about it.

*

Stark’s stuff didn’t always work perfectly, though. It was a good thing IT security wasn’t around several weeks later, the day she got stuck in the elevator with four other employees from her floor.

“Oh, God,” Ellen said resignedly. “The military trusts us to build them bombs and we can’t keep our elevators running?”

“Trusted us,” Nadine corrected her after a minute.

“They’d be all over it in a second if Mr. Stark ever decided to return to building weapons.”

Natalie frowned. “I thought he was pretty adamant about that.”

“Oh, he is,” Ellen said.

“So. Natalie.” One of the two Jennifers in the elevator gave her a cheeky grin. “We heard _all_ about you and Murdock having cheesecake together in the cafeteria.”

Natasha looked at her blankly.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Nadine said.

“You could win the office pool,” that Jennifer— Stevens— continued. “On whether he’s a natural redhead. Does that color go _aaalllll_ the way down?”

“Jesus Christ,” Ellen said. “How the hell did you get through three years of law school without learning the definition of sexual harassment? There’s _not_ a pool,” she added to Natalie. “It’s just Jen speculating with her friend one floor down. Who actually got fired two months ago. So.”

Jen pouted. “Suspended, not fired.”

“Same thing, here.”

“Seriously, though.” Jen lowered her voice. “Is he as dreamy in person as he looks? He looks _really_ built.”

Natasha looked at her.

“Oh! Have you showed him your modeling photos yet? He can make out some images, you know. Especially if he... _touches_ them.”

“Did you _Google_ her?” Nadine asked, as Ellen rolled her eyes.

“No, Brad did,” Jen said.

“I don’t think I knew you were a model, Natalie,” Ellen said.

Natasha at least appreciated her obvious attempt to change the subject. “I used to be, yes.”

The elevator lurched down two feet, then froze. The other women all staggered backwards.

“Told you we should have taken the stairs,” Nadine said.

“But I can’t walk in these shoes,” Jen said.

“Why do you even own shoes you can’t walk in?”

“Because they make my legs look fantastic.”

“Why do you put so much effort into convincing people you’re a ditz?”

“To get laid, mostly. What?”

Nadine just shook her head.

“Hey, men feel threatened by intelligent women. I didn’t make the rules. Right, Natalie? If you want to catch Murdock, don’t show him your _degrees_ , is all I’m saying.”

Natasha looked at her.

The other Jennifer-- Walters-- moaned behind her. “Jennifer?” Ellen asked.

“Sorry.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Enclosed spaces make me nervous. I’ll be fine.”

“You do look a little green,” Nadine said.

“I lived on the ninth floor of my building in Brooklyn,” Jennifer said. “Got stuck in the elevator once for three hours. I took the stairs after that.” She took a deep breath in, then out. “Great exercise.”

“Damn.” Jen sounded impressed. “I bet _your_ legs looked fantastic.”

“You also worked in New York City?” Natalie asked. “With a patent agency?”

“I was a trial lawyer, actually.”

Jennifer looked a little less nauseous, so Natalie kept talking to distract her, and Natasha kept listening, for information. “This seems like a popular place for criminal lawyers from New York to end up.”

“Oh, I’m from LA originally. It’s one reason I looked for jobs here. Along with the—“

 _KaCHUNK_. The elevator jolted into motion again.

“— weather. Oh, thank God.”

It stopped again.

“For fuck’s sake,” Jen sighed. She looked up. Then she reached down and pulled off one of her very spiky heels. “Okay, I need a boost.”

“… what?” Nadine said.

Natasha realized that she might have written this woman off too quickly.

“I’m going to bust us out of here. Jennifer really is turning green. Ellen, give me a lift?”

“Sorry. I strained my shoulder lifting Sherry. Pete still hasn’t let me live it down.”

“Ouch.” Jen sounded genuinely sympathetic. “Nadine? Natalie?”

“Sure,” Natasha said. “I can give you a lift.”

She made Jen take her other very sharp heel off first, then put her hands together and boosted Jen's foot towards the ceiling while Nadine steadied her from behind. Natasha was impressed when Jen managed to get the hatch open with two blows from her shoe. Jen poked her head through the roof. “Okay, I may have miscalculated this one.” Her voice was muffled with the echo from the shaft. “But, Jennifer, if you want some breathing room—“

 _KaCHUNK_. The elevator dropped, then moved smoothly. Jen staggered as Nadine stumbled against the wall. Natasha lowered the other woman to the floor and hoped no one had noticed that it hadn’t taken much effort.

Ellen, who was closest to the buttons, pressed the one for the nearest floor. No sense in risking getting stuck again. The others breathed a sigh of relief when the doors opened, and stood back to let Jennifer out. Then hurried out themselves before the doors could close again.

Nadine went over to Jennifer, who was crouched by the wall, hands on her knees and head down. “You gonna be okay?” She put her hand between Jennifer’s shoulder blades—

And Jennifer jumped and threw off her hand.

Nadine’s eyes widened. She backed up.

“Sorry!” Jennifer said quickly. She was breathing hard— and with a count, Natasha noticed, as if she were struggling for control. “Sorry, Nadine. You just startled me. Bit on edge still…” She gestured towards the elevator, which had closed and gone off to another floor to consume more unfortunate victims.

“I’ll call Maintenance and let them know it’s on the fritz,” Ellen said into the silence. “I think we could all use some coffee. How about the café upstairs? Nadine? Natalie? Jennifers?”

No one argued. Jen Stevens ducked into her office for walkable shoes while Ellen made the call and Jennifer leaned against the wall and kept breathing carefully. Natalie made sympathetic noises at appropriate intervals while Natasha watched everyone, carefully.

*

The next week, Sinead called Natalie into her office. “I have a new project for you, but it requires a higher level of discretion than anything you’ve worked on for us so far.”

“I can be very discrete,” Natasha assured her.

Sinead nodded. “I know. We wouldn't be having this conversation otherwise. So. It’s not common knowledge that the military wants to take Mr. Stark’s armor.”

“Do they have a strong case?”

“After a certain point, they don’t need one… but they keep vacillating. They’re saying both that Mr. Stark can’t be trusted with it, and also that the technology is powerful enough that he doesn’t have the right to keep it to himself.”

“I can’t see Mr. Stark letting that happen.”

“No. But we’d prefer to prevent it through more conventional channels. No one wants our CEO in a standoff with an armored division.” She pursed her lips. “I’m putting you on the team. Your collective goal is to keep Mr. Stark’s armor in Mr. Stark’s hands. Stall the process as long as you possibly can. We haven’t had any formal legal action yet; it’s just been posturing, and politicians making disapproving statements.”

“What about theft, either of the plans or of the armor itself?”

“The plans and the armor are both at Mr. Stark’s workshop; he takes the responsibility for securing that himself. IT has been quietly upgrading the intranet security for some time now.”

Natalie nodded.

“The direct lead is Moses Johnson; I’ll email him and cc you, and he’ll bring you up to speed.”

The move gave Natasha what she needed to keep S.H.I.E.L.D. happy. She didn’t know if they were planning to intervene directly; maybe they would, if Fury wanted Stark for his… _superhero league._ But it would risk souring their relationship with the military. It would take delicate string-pulling. She wouldn’t be surprised if they sent her to do it.

She woke up one morning at about three am, to an email from Coulson: _Are these yours?_ Two death certificates, police reports... and pictures of bodies on a slab. It was the man and woman she'd seen in Murdock's office.

Natasha frowned. They'd both been shot in the head, twice, from an extraordinarily long range. She called him: “I couldn't make a kill from that distance. Barton is the only person I know of who could.”

“Barton's been in Baku for the last ten days.”

“Also, I would have told you. I'm not freelancing, Coulson.”

“Just checking,” Coulson said calmly.

“But there's a connection to Stark. I saw these two people in the office of one of his employees-- Matt Murdock. Murdock said they were all on some environmental protection task force together.”

“Is this the same Matt Murdock whose files you pulled?”

“Yes. There's something off about him, but I don't know what it is. Something... about his blindness?”

“That's helpful. Thanks, Agent Romanoff.”

She spent the day in meetings with the other members of the Iron Man defense team. At home, she sorted the messages that had accumulated in her various mailboxes and left all but two for the morning. One was an invitation to a Stark Industries employee gala. _Do I_ have _to go?_ It would be a long, boring evening. But it would be a great excuse to do more snooping, so she couldn’t pass it up.

*

Her outlook on the gala didn't improve as it got closer. She’d done so much worse for S.H.I.E.L.D., she’d done much, _much_ worse before S.H.I.E.L.D., and she was getting spoiled. She still didn’t want to go. Five years ago— _two_ years ago— she wouldn’t have cared, because she wouldn’t have known there were other things she liked to do better. Learning what you liked also meant learning what you _disliked_.

She wished Clint were coming, to circulate with her and make soft-voiced snarky comments. She went back and forth as she carefully did her makeup. Then she put her phone on the vanity, on speaker. It couldn’t possibly hurt to try, could it? It wasn’t _likely_. She called.

It rang, and rang. She was about to hang up when someone picked up. Silence. Had someone gotten Clint? Had she now gotten him into worse trouble by calling?

“Nat?” Clint said muzzily.

She looked at the time and frowned. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine. What’s wrong?” He sounded alert now.

“Nothing’s wrong. Didn’t realize you’d be sleeping.” Pause. “Sorry.”

“I’ll live.” She heard him get up and start moving around. “So everything’s fine and you don’t need to be rescued from a Venezuelan dungeon?”

“I could stand to be rescued from this gala.”

“Want me to crash through the windows and whisk you away in front of all the other guests?” Water running in the background.

“No. I don’t want that.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Tasha?” Sounds of fumbling in a cupboard.

“Are you volunteering to take over my mission once I blow it spectacularly?”

“Would it be any fun?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“That’s what I thought.” Pause. “How... are you?”

“Fine.”

She rolled her eyes. “What have you been doing?”

“Uh, recon, mostly. Going in ahead of strike teams. Coordinating as eyes up high.”

“That’s, uh…” She couldn’t think of what to say that wasn’t a platitude and that he wouldn’t interpret as pity.

“Better than sitting on my ass all day reading S.H.I.E.L.D.’s cold cases.”

“Any-- any word on when...”

“No.” His voice was dark. “I’m still _forbidden_ from shooting anything higher than a forty. They’re makin’ me go so slow, it’s killing me.”

“If you want to make yourself feel better,” she said after a minute, “you could challenge Coulson to a shooting contest.”

He snorted softly. “Not sure that would make me feel better, but it would make me laugh.”

“Hey, Barton?”

“What?”

“You are aware you could still take out a squad of Hydra soldiers singlehandedly, probably _blindfolded_ , even without your bow, right?”

“Yeah, I did accept that eventually. But you don’t understand, it’s my _bow_ . It’s— who I _am_ , Nat.” He sounded deeply frustrated, and worryingly vulnerable.

“I probably don’t,” she admitted after a minute. “But I do understand how convalescence fucking sucks, and it feels like it will drag on forever, but we both know it doesn’t.”

Another pause. “Yeah,” he said softly.

“If I were close enough to break in, ambush you in your apartment, and inflict terrible takeout on you, I would,” she promised.

“Aw, Tasha, you’re such a soft touch.”

“I know. Don’t tell anyone.” She glanced at the time, then started meticulously applying her eyeliner. A steady hand was necessary for wielding any weapon, whether a pistol, or a knife, or the tools she used to craft her appearance.

“I won’t. All those secrets are safe with me.”

“What do you mean, _all those secrets?_ ”

“I know you donated your Christmas bonus to Wilkerson’s daughter’s facial reconstruction fund.”

 _What?_ “No you don’t.”

“Uh-huh.”

Barton was such an _asshole_ sometimes. There was no way he could possibly know that. He was just fishing for information, because he had a perverse love of rubbing Natalia’s face in the things—

Rubbing Natasha’s face in the things the Red Room would have disapproved of the most.

“Fuck you all,” she said aloud. “That includes you. I have to go.”

“Stay safe, Natasha.”

“You… too.”

“Hey, Nat.”

She paused just before she hung up. “What.”

“They’re dead. You’re calling the shots. You don’t gotta do what they said, and they can’t hurt you when you don’t.”

“I _know_ that.” She felt as frustrated as he’d sounded, because she knew it, she _did_ , and yet— it was more convincing coming from him right now. That he even knew what she was talking about-- _that was a weakness she couldn’t—_

 _Oh, fuck off_. She wouldn’t go into a spiral about flouting the Red Room’s teachings because she was… flouting the Red Room’s teachings. That was ridiculous.

 _We’re a pair, aren’t we?_ How the hell had she gotten here, guarding the vulnerabilities of a man who guarded hers with just as much deadly, concentrated efficacy?

 _By burning their rules to the ground and taking yourself into your own hands._ “Barton.”

“Yeah?”

“… good luck at the gym,” she said after a long moment.

“Uh… thanks.”

They hung up.

She stepped into her dress— a high-necked, modestly cut one that would still draw half the eyes in the room— and did her hair. Then she double-checked her weapons, made sure she wasn’t printing, and drove to the gala. She went around the army of valets at the door and parked herself. That wouldn’t stop anyone who was determined to get in, but there was no point in being careless.

She put her wrap in the coat room, picked up a bottle of water, and snagged a clean glass when the bartender wasn't looking. Then she stole a garnish from a drink waiting for its owner, and had something that looked authentic enough to disguise her paranoia.

The gala was admittedly impressive, and she'd been to a lot of fancy parties. There was a small army of caterers, enough bars that none of them had long lines, and so many potted plants and water features that she half-expected to see woodland creatures frolicking through the large room. It was more than she'd expected; either her coworkers were unreliable reporters, or they'd really gone all out this year. She knew that the timing had also changed; this event was usually a good five months later. One of her more gossipy coworkers said that Stark had moved it up himself, but Natasha didn't think he took enough interest in those details to care. He-- or whoever was responsible-- certainly hadn't paid much attention to the “detail” that the Stark Expo was opening in three weeks. Coordinating the timing of this as well must have been a nightmare for whoever had gotten stuck doing it.

She was already bored. If Clint were here, he'd be stuffing his pockets with fancy food and snarking at all the other guests. Was that why this mission was dragging on her in a way Naperville hadn’t?

But Naperville had also been difficult _because_ Clint had been there. Here, there was no one to ferret out her vulnerabilities, and make her lose track of the distinction between her cover story and herself.

Still. She was a little startled by how much she wanted to see a friendly face. She was, still, a little startled that her world included the _concept_ of a friendly face.

A minor disturbance at the door. One of the caterers, and two frazzled-looking SI employees, rushed the tall redhead who’d just stepped inside. Natasha watched as the other woman managed to handle them all within thirty seconds, making them speak one at a time, without giving the impression of being flustered at all. Even if Natasha had not recognized her from the files, she would have guessed that this was Pepper Potts.

A man had come in behind her— not Stark. A slender man of average height who should have been nondescript… but Natasha recognized him. _From where?_ She didn’t know. But his face slotted into her memory in a familiar place. She just didn’t know _why_ it was familiar.

She was staring. She glanced away, pretending to watch Potts again. In her peripheral vision, she saw him staring back. _Sloppy, Romanoff!_ She’d gawked so obviously that he’d _noticed_ —

But she knew that expression: recognition.

 _Oh, shit_.

His eyes narrowed. He did not look pleased to see her. That didn’t really narrow things down for her. He shifted his weight like he was going to start forward, but then the woman caught his attention--

“Natalie, is that you?”

She turned to see Ellen. “Hello! I’m glad I ran in to you— it’s like a zoo in here.”

“Oh, wow, you look gorgeous. Yeah, I can’t find many people I know, either. I do have an old friend around here somewhere, though. She’s on medical leave from her job so she came for a visit. Oh, there she is. Sharon, this is Natalie.”

The woman in the exquisitely cut tuxedo turned around.

“Natalie, Sharon,” Ellen added.

Natalie stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Sharon, of course, didn’t bat an eye. “Hi. You work with Ellen?”

“Yes, I work on contract law, mostly. What about you?”

“I’m a consultant on national security issues. Based out of New York.”

“I’ve never gotten a more specific answer out of her,” Ellen said, with a pointed sideways look. “She also stringently denies that it had anything to do with being _blown up_.”

Natalie’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God. Someone bombed you?”

Sharon gave Ellen a disgruntled look. “You can’t go around telling everyone my life story.”

“You called me up after _six months_ of no contact, and asked if you could come visit because you needed to get out of the city. And then I walked into your bedroom with some fresh linens and you looked like you’d gone through a food processor!”

Sharon winced. Natalie winced. Ellen recovered her calm. “I’m sorry. You freaked me out.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t exactly a picnic on my end either.”

“But what happened?” Natalie demanded.

“It wasn’t an attack on me. I just happened to— be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Luckily, there were a couple of guardian angels there, too. They got me to medical attention and saved my life.”

Natasha had nearly choked on her drink. _Damn it, Carter_. “Wow. I’m glad you’re okay,” Natalie said, using Natasha’s own discomfiture as her own.

“Thanks. Me too.”

“How long are you on leave for?”

“I… haven’t decided yet. I spent some time in England with my grandmother but I still wasn’t ready to go back. So I came here.”

“How exactly does a consultant go on _leave_?” Ellen asked.

“I’m not a freelancer, El. I work for a firm.”

Ellen looked deeply suspicious and not at all convinced.

“Besides,” Sharon added. “It’s been years since I took a real vacation and… decades since I’d been back here for any length of time.”

Knowing how old she was, Natasha thought ‘decades’ translated into ‘since my parents died.’

“I’m enjoying actual sunshine for once. And your kids are adorable, I’m gonna miss them when I go.”

Ellen looked like she knew _exactly_ what Sharon was doing by praising her kids, but still couldn’t help being disarmed by it. “Natalie’s from New York— right?”

Natalie nodded.

“I wonder if you know any of the same people. Though I doubt Natalie moves in your ‘consultant’ circles,” Ellen added darkly.

“I worked on a patent case for a defense contractor a few years ago,” Natalie said. “There are surprisingly few of those in the city. Maybe we do know some of the same people.”

“Ellen?”

Someone Natasha didn’t recognize was trying to get Ellen’s attention. Natalie murmured something polite about meeting Sharon, and continued circulating as the other women turned away. Natasha, meanwhile, watched the man who’d come in with Potts. The part of her memory that would explain how she knew him stayed stubbornly empty. That was a clue by itself. She wanted to take him aside quietly and kill him, because the thought of leaving a hostile at her back when she had no idea how much he knew about her or how she knew _him_ made her skin crawl. But she couldn’t, until she had more information. And she wasn’t supposed to kill anyone at all on this mission. Fury said it would upset Stark.

“Natalie?”

Natasha nearly _jumped_ , she was so unsettled by her not-encounter with the man. Damn it, she’d fought so hard to take what her past had held and bend it to her own use. She didn’t like it when people walked out of her past. She liked to think she’d victoriously put all that behind her… but _that_ was a damned sentimental lie. Madame and Ivan and all the rest might have been— _were_ — dead, but the consequences of life continued. “Matt. Evening.”

“Hi.” Matt stood next to her. “You seem a little tense. Everything okay?”

She frowned. “You’re… blind, Matt, how can you tell whether or not I’m tense?” They were in a noisy room, and she'd said about ten words to him.

“I told you. My senses are very acute. So— is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re not a very good liar, Natalie.”

 _You’re pretty overbearing, Murdock_. “I don’t always like large, crowded rooms. They can be overwhelming. But it’s not something I like to admit. You’re supposed to be always on, in our job.”

He looked, suddenly, more serious than her lie called for. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“And you?”

“I don’t like large, crowded rooms either.”

“I mean, how are you doing.”

“Oh— besides that, fine.”

She studied him carefully. She could see another bruise, on the outside of his right wrist. It wouldn’t have been visible normally, but he raised his hand to scratch his face, and his sleeve moved up his arm. You’re _not a very good liar, Matt_. Was someone taking advantage of his blindness? But he navigated uncannily well— and he had those cudgels under his couch.

It wasn’t her problem. She wasn’t a white knight. She was here to do a specific thing, because she was being paid, not to save the world and rescue kittens stuck up trees.

_You’re not with S.H.I.E.L.D. for the pay._

_Shut up._

She knew Clint still had nightmares about losing his hearing in Naperville. She thought about someone taking advantage of that vulnerability.

_Stop it. This is ridiculous. Murdock’s not Clint, he wasn’t tortured into blindness, and he’s had his adult life to learn to cope._

She thought of a truckful of mutant kids that they’d stopped in rural Ontario, and the old homeless guys they’d freed in Iowa.

 _Oh, fucking hell_. “Walk with me, Matt.”

“Any particular direction?”

“This way.” She put two fingers on the inside of his wrist long enough to guide him, then let go.

Outside, the beautifully-decorated patio had its own food and drink tables on the far side of the fountain. She glanced around the shrubbery-- there were just a couple of bored-looking guys from marketing, and a woman Natasha vaguely recognized from R&D getting determinedly drunk.

“Everything all right?”

She took a few steps to the nearest bench, and watched with interest as he followed her with ease, only perfunctorily using his cane. “How’d you get that bruise?”

He went very still for a moment. “What bruise?”

“The one on the outside of your right wrist.”

He probed it with his fingers. “Oh, that? I accidentally shut my hand in a drawer.”

Natasha looked at the color and the size, and tried to picture the kind of drawer and the force that would have been required. There was nothing suitable in his apartment. He could have shut it in a different drawer, of course. But there was no corresponding bruise on the _inside_ of his wrist.

“Was that what you wanted to ask me? Why’d you bring us out here?” He sounded amused.

Natalie let convalescent Natasha color her response, and made her voice soft, like she was admitting a difficult secret. “I know how hard it can be to be vulnerable, and have to admit to it. I just wanted to give you some privacy.”

Murdock’s smile softened from amusement. “You’re very sweet, Natalie.”

 _I’m nothing of the kind, and you’re still not telling the truth about who you are or what you’ve been doing._ “Let’s go back inside. I’m getting chilly.”

“Chilly? This is warm. I thought you were from New York.”

She’d noticed that herself, and been glad once again that she was spending the winter in California. “You’re wearing a tuxedo. I’m wearing a cocktail dress.”

“Sometimes I really hate being blind,” Murdock sighed.

Natasha raised one eyebrow.

“Like when I can’t see the face you’re probably making right now.”

She arched the eyebrow higher.

His face became serious. “I’m sorry. Did I make you uncomfortable? I didn’t mean to.”

“I already told you I was uncomfortable,” Natalie said. “I’m cold.”

He gestured towards the door. “After you.”

She opened the door and walked right into the stare of the strange man with Pepper Potts. As she held the door for Murdock, she asked, “Do prospective clients come to this?”

“Occasionally. Why? Is there a bigwig here?”

“Maybe. He keeps looking at me.” That was safe enough; Murdock wasn’t going to guess _why_. Pause. “I don’t like it.”

She expected another crack along the lines of the cocktail dress one. Instead he said, “We can go back outside and I’ll give you my coat.”

Natasha was surprised into smiling. “Oh— thank you. It’s fine. Let’s just… circulate.” Natasha then wondered when Natalie and Murdock had become a unit for the duration of the gala— what happened to not drawing attention? But she would look less conspicuous with someone than alone… and because Murdock had no way of identifying the man Natasha wanted to keep an eye on, he wouldn’t know she was using him as cover.

She picked up another unopened bottle of water. The crowd murmured as people turned towards the low dais at the other end of the room. She craned her neck. “It’s Mr. Stark. Does he usually talk at these things?”

“Only a little. He used to stay longer, I heard.”

“Oh?”

“I have a friend who… works with him, and he said that ever since the naked fountain debacle four years ago, his assistant makes sure he goes home right at the beginning.”

The room quieted. Stark didn’t have to say anything, just adjusted the microphone and waited. He was the most casually dressed person in the room, in a T-shirt and jeans. It should have come across as disrespectful, but it didn’t. “Last year at this time,” he said, “I’d just received an invitation from the military to come to Afghanistan and demonstrate our latest systems for them.”

The hush became a profound silence.

“That went to hell and back. I came back three months later, and I found the company intact. You had no reason to expect I was coming back, but you stayed. You didn’t jump ship for the first Stark Industries knock-off that would take you, even when the stock free fell and the acquisition bids started coming in.”

Was she the only one who noticed that Stane’s name was conspicuous by its absence?

“Then I retooled the company to stop doing the thing we’d always done. And… you went with it. We did great. The stock’s never been higher, but more importantly, I don’t think we’ve ever done better work. That took a lot of trust, on your part, and a lot of courage. So. Thank you.”

Natasha was startled by how convincing he sounded. Gratitude she could believe, maybe, but the humility with which it was delivered… was harder to attribute to Tony Stark.

“I’ve been told my ego can occupy an entire platform of its own,” a quick sideways glance to where Potts had smiled briefly, “so I’m going to get out of the way and let you enjoy tonight. This is your night.” He stepped back from the mic, the dais lights went down, the room dimmed, and a band started playing. The caterers had set out a huge buffet at the other end of the room; the crowd drifted towards it.

She glanced around and saw the man she couldn’t place. He was with Stark and Potts, but he was searching the room— for her?

As she watched him searching, suddenly, she placed him. _Oh,_ hell.

The details of an entire mission she’d been made to forget dropped back into her head, except for his name. If he decided he was sure about knowing her, then he would know she was an assassin and a spy. He’d be able to discredit her. He’d be able to _try_.

 _He should be dead._ The Red Room had said they’d cleaned up the loose ends they’d ordered her to leave. Was she remembering that correctly? She couldn’t ever be sure. If she was remembering incorrectly that he was supposed to be dead, was she remembering incorrectly where she knew him from? No— the memory was too vivid for that. But they’d blocked it from her for so many years.

“Natalie?”

She nearly jumped. _Damn it_. This always happened when a memory cascade triggered. She went too far into the past and risked danger in the present. There was no way in hell Murdock should have been able to startle her like that. She feigned nonchalance. “Hmm?”

“Is everything all right?”

She’d deal with the mystery that was Murdock later. Now, she could use this. “It’s... that man is still staring at me. I think he's drunk.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Pause. “I... get this a lot, actually.” Natasha waited to see how he would react.

“That must get old.”

“Very.” She looked for the bar closest to Stark, Potts, and the man. She started moving them gently in that direction. “I could use a drink. Do you want anything?”

“Sure.”

As she'd expected, the caterers were particularly attentive to the bigwigs. As soon as the man's glass was empty, a silent waiter brought another from the bar. “Could you make me one of what that gentleman is having?” she asked the bartender, with a bright smile. “I saw it go by and it looked good.”

“Sure.”

Natasha watched carefully as she made it. Then she watched the bartender watch the bigwig, who was looking around for her, but hadn't seen her half-hidden by Murdock. From the time it was taking Murdock to make up his mind, she thought he was sticking by her out of a misplaced sense of protectiveness, but she could use that, too.

Natasha waited until the bartender was distracted and casually tipped a couple extra shots worth of liquor into the drink the other woman was making. Her mark could send the drink back if he realized it was much stronger than he’d expected… but she thought that a man trying to make a business deal with Tony Stark wouldn’t want to admit he couldn’t hold his alcohol. She was right. The man’s eyebrows twitched a bit when he tried the new drink, but that was all.

It wasn’t hard to help the caterers keep her target taken care of. She watched his face get redder. She didn’t try to get away from Murdock, who didn’t seem to want to leave. She _was_ surprised to discover that she didn’t mind his company. Maybe it was just because on some level she was still trying to reconcile all the odd things she’d noticed about him, but Natasha was not much more bored with him than Natalie was.

Murdock excused himself to use the restroom. Stark left, slipping out a back door so quietly that she almost missed it. When Murdock came back, it was from the direction in which Stark had gone. “Sorry. Ran into an old friend and wanted to catch up.”

“Sure.” She gave him a pretty smile, though he couldn’t see it.

“How’s your stalker?”

“Leaving me alone. And getting really drunk, from the looks of it.” She bit back a giggle. “You don’t have to babysit me, Matt. I’ll be fine.”

“I like your company,” he said. “You don’t pity me.”

Natasha was startled at how much that resonated with her. “I…” Natalie wasn’t sure what to say. “Well, you don’t seem unhappy.”

Murdock’s smile was, for a fleeting second, very inappropriately feral. Then it modulated into something more suitable. “I’m not unhappy,” he assured her.

She was tempted to pick his pocket to see if his wallet would give her any answers… but if he was working for Stark Industries, then any cover he had would be very good. And he was so uncannily aware of what was going on around him, she wasn’t sure she’d get away with it. “Oh, there’s Nadine, finally.”

Murdock came with her. They sat and chatted with Nadine and her husband for a while. Then Ellen came over with Sharon in tow, and they pulled up two more chairs. Murdock, Nadine and her husband all expressed concern when Ellen explained about Sharon’s medical leave, but despite Ellen’s quick sidelong look, Sharon didn’t give up any more details about it.

“Ellen, where’s Pete?” Nadine asked.

“Home with the girls. This isn’t really his thing, you know.”

Nadine made a sympathetic noise. “How’s he doing with that?”

“Oh— better. But even before the war… this just wouldn’t have been his kind of fun.” At Natalie’s wide-eyed, inquisitive look, she explained, “My husband has PTSD.”

Natalie made the appropriate sympathetic noises. “That must be rough.”

“Oh… sometimes. He works from home, so that helps. He doesn’t have to go out much if he doesn’t want to.” Her voice was edged with a little frustration— for her husband? Or because it was difficult to watch someone you— cared about, suffering? “It’s hard on the girls, sometimes.” She sounded wistful. “When I tell them Daddy can’t play today and they need to be very quiet, they’re good about it, but I can tell they’re scared for him. But it doesn’t happen very often, thankfully.” She opened her mouth again, then closed it. Natasha watched her carefully, and was rewarded a moment later when, after Nadine started talking, Ellen and Sharon glanced at each other. Yeah— the circumstances that produced PTSD were something Carter would know about.

She also caught Carter looking at Murdock a couple of times. It would be out of character to raise one pointed eyebrow... but it was tempting.

When had she become the kind of person who easily exchanged teasing with Sharon Carter? _I hope you die horribly, and very soon._ But she was living proof that people changed.

Under pretense of laughing at Murdock's joke, Nadine slid closer to Natalie. “Natalie, there’s a man staring at you,” she murmured.

Natasha had been aware of the man drifting closer to them. He’d lost Potts, or she’d allowed him to lose her. His face was very flushed now, and he wasn’t walking steadily. People were giving him a wide berth. “I know,” she murmured back. “He’s been doing it all night. You’d be surprised how many men mistake my cup size for a come-on.”

She pitched her voice like she was trying not to be heard, but just loud enough to _actually_ be heard over the noise of the nearby fountain. Carter snorted; Ellen rolled her eyes. Murdock and Nadine’s husband looked awkward and pretended they hadn’t heard anything. “You know, I’m not really sure I would be,” Nadine sighed.

“Speak of the devil,” Ellen murmured. Natalie looked up, but it was Jen, not Natasha's mark. Jen was on the arm of one of the execs from Marketing, but he abandoned her with something bordering disgust when she made a blatant pass at Murdock-- which also explained Ellen's remark. “Jen, you need to go home,” Ellen said firmly. “You’re just going to make more of an ass out of yourself if you stay.”

“I’m fine,” Jen slurred.

Ellen and Nadine gave each other a despairing look. “Call a cab,” Ellen ordered. She bent down and started undoing one of Jen’s strappy heels. Jen batted at her hands ineffectually.

“I’ll get some strong coffee,” Nadine’s husband— Sam— offered. He looked so uncomfortable being there that none of them stopped him as he hurried away to get something that wouldn’t actually help.

By the time he came back, Nadine was off the phone. “Do you, ah, want help?” Murdock offered.

“No. Thanks. Let’s not pour gasoline on the fire. Nadine and I can get her.” Nadine picked up the coffee, and Ellen picked up the shoe. “If anyone asks, she twisted her ankle and that’s why she’s staggering. Ready, Jen? Up on three.”

They got her up and moving towards the door with less fuss than Natasha had expected. Nadine's husband excused himself to go get the car in case Nadine rode home with Jen. “Does she do this a lot?” Sharon asked.

Natasha shrugged. “Apparently she’s very good at her job.”

“She is,” Murdock confirmed. “When she’s doing it.”

Carter gave Murdock another quick, evaluative glance. Probably no one who wasn’t a spy would have caught it. Since it was just the three of them, and Murdock was blind, Natasha allowed herself one quick eyebrow raise. Carter caught it and flushed pink. Natasha smirked.

Over Murdock’s shoulder, Natalie saw Potts coming after the man. Davies? That sounded right. The name seemed to go with the face she had in her head, a younger version of the man, no mustache. He was coming closer to her. She glanced at Carter, and knew she’d seen him too.

The man nearly staggered into Murdock’s chair. “You,” he slurred.

Murdock stood and turned, towering over him. “Excuse me?”

“Not you.” He pushed past, looking surprised at how difficult it was to budge Murdock even a little. “ _You_.” He pointed at Natalie. “I know you.”

“Excuse me?” Natalie repeated. “I’m sorry, I don’t know you.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You tried to kill me! Know it was you.”

“I, I don’t—“ She made a show of looking around. “I really don’t know you. Please go away. Is there security?” she murmured to Murdock.

Davies lunged for her. Carter slid past her and stopped him with outstretched palms. “Keep your hands off the lady,” she said, firmly, and loudly. His momentum changed directions, he spilled his drink down his coat, and he staggered back— right over the tip of Murdock’s cane. He went down with a _crash_ and took two candle stands down with him.

The alcohol-soaked cloth caught quickly. He staggered to his feet, slapping at himself ineffectually. “ _Bitch!_ ” he shrieked. He went for her again. She flinched back. Carter blocked his grab and threw him into the fountain without obvious effort. It wasn’t very deep, but he submerged. Water flew in all directions and steam rose as the flames were extinguished.

“Oh my God!” Natalie said. She stepped out of her heels, knelt on the edge of the fountain, leaned down, and grabbed the flailing, facedown man. She hauled him up until he could breathe. “Help!”

Carter leaned over and grabbed the man’s feet. Together, they started to pull him out. Natasha made it look like Natalie was struggling. Carter dropped his feet, and he fell on his ass. “Oops,” she said loudly. “Sir, stop wiggling, we’re trying to help you!”

Natalie made a distressed noise. Natasha choked back laughter. They got him up and sitting on the edge of the fountain. The fight had gone out of him. He just looked confused. But he was breathing, and didn’t appear burned.

A crowd had gathered. Potts pushed her way through. Murdock moved to her side. “Ms. Potts, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to trip him, but I— I couldn’t—“

Potts looked him up and down. “Mr. Murdock, right?”

“Yes. I’m so _sorry_.” He sounded mortified. “I didn’t know he was right there!” It sounded very genuine.

… but Natasha had watched him deliberately move his cane a few inches, just as Carter shoved Davies back.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t know.”

Natalie had wrestled Davies out of his suit jacket and draped it over the nearest chair. “He’s going to freeze in the AC in here— oh, Ms. Potts! I—“

“Tried to kill me,” Davies muttered.

Potts looked pained.

“Ms. Potts, I, I—“

“Don’t worry,” Potts said softly. “I watched him get drunker and drunker all evening. I can imagine what happened.”

“He lunged for Natalie,” Sharon confirmed. “I don’t know if he wanted to push her in himself, or— or grope her— but he definitely went for her.”

Potts was on her phone. “Happy? I need you.”

She hung up. Natalie tried to apologize again for the fuss. “This is nothing,” Potts said. “Trust me. Ms…?”

“Rushman. Natalie Rushman.”

Potts got rid of the crowd with surprisingly few words. “I have someone coming for him. We’ll get him back to his hotel. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry for his behavior.”

“No— it’s not your fault, of course not.” Natalie looked around, then grabbed a spare napkin to dry her hands on. Murdock was propping Davies up… rather firmly. Someone who looked too closely could mistake the supporting hand on Davies’ shoulder for a restraining one.

“Why don’t you go have a drink and neaten up,” Potts suggested. “I’ll handle this.”

“Yes, Ms. Potts. Thank you.”

Sharon followed her away from the fountain. Murdock stayed. Sharon glanced back at him. Natalie made a show of getting a fresh drink and finding a place to sit.

“You okay?” Carter asked.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem, Natalie.”

Natasha knew that Carter got it— that Natasha could handle herself fine, but Natalie wasn’t a martial arts expert.

Sharon glanced back again. “So, Murdock, is he… involved?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What the hell happened?” It was Ellen, back from seeing Jen off, and alone.

“That guy made a pass at Natalie,” Sharon said. “Literally. Tried to grab her. He fell into the candles and then into the fountain.”

“Oh my God. Honey, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m fine, I’m not hurt. Sharon kept him off of me, actually.” They watched as a stocky man in a suit cut through the crowd, exchanged a few words with Potts and Murdock, then grabbed Davies and hauled him to his feet. “Who’s that?”

“Happy Hogan. Stark’s bodyguard and driver.” Ellen looked her over. “Why don’t you go home? You’ve got water all over your dress, you look shaken up. No one would blame you for cutting out early.”

“I’m not shaken up. I’m fine.” She blotted at her dress ineffectually. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

A kitchen towel from one of the caterers took care of the water more effectively. She rejoined Ellen and Carter at the same time as Murdock found them. “They took him back to his hotel to sleep it off,” Murdock reported. “You sure you’re okay, Natalie?”

“I’m fine. Really. I just want to forget about it.”

That got them to drop it, though Ellen insisted on getting her a fresh glass of water. Natasha watched as Carter caught Ellen’s eye, glanced at Murdock, then tilted her head. Ellen shrugged, and made a slight, open-handed gesture.

The excitement died down. The very efficient janitors had the area by the fountain cleaned and reordered, and it looked like nothing had happened. Natasha was impressed when Pepper Potts pulled her aside for a moment: “I wanted to make sure you were okay. That shouldn’t have happened.”

“I know. But I am fine. Honestly. Unfortunately, we live in a world where things like this do happen. I… appreciate your handling it.” Both Natalie and Natasha appreciated that. It would have gone differently, at many other companies.

They exchanged a silent look of commiseration, two women used to functioning in a world of entitled men, and it was one bit of her cover that was completely honest. “I don’t think we’ve officially met,” Potts said. “I’m Pepper.”

Natalie shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise.” Potts lingered for a moment, and took a sip of her drink. “I appreciate your staying calm and not going into hysterics.”

“Has that… happened?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Potts gave her a professional smile. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Natalie.”

She stepped back to Natalie’s friends in time to hear Murdock say he was going to head home. “I’d be happy to drive you,” Carter offered. “I have a car.”

Natasha studiously did not look at her.

Murdock didn’t hesitate. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Natalie didn’t stay long after that. When she got home, she put a report in to HQ, notifying them that her cover might have been compromised, and the steps she’d taken to preserve it. She also requested more information on Matt Murdock. Then she hesitated, and sent a request for the best way to contact Sharon Carter.

It was Sitwell who replied— working late, if he was on the East Coast. She picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Do you need Carter for something? She’s in L.A.”

“I know. I met her tonight. I need a secure line to her, and I don’t know what arrangements she’s made to stay in touch with S.H.I.E.L.D. that won't compromise her own cover.”

“I can—“

“Not tonight,” Natasha added. “Tomorrow.”

She heard tapping. “Videoconference tomorrow night at 8 your time?”

“Good. Thanks.”

The next day was Saturday, but they’d all gotten a panic-tinged email about R&D’s discovery of a problem with the patent on the plastiglass they intended to exhibit at the Stark Expo, so she worked all day. At 8, she closed her Stark Industries laptop and opened her S.H.I.E.L.D. tablet.

When Carter’s face appeared, she was sitting in a park by the ocean, under a park lamp— no one in her immediate vicinity, and the waves would cover the noise of her voice. Good. “Tell me about Murdock’s scars,” Natasha said.

Carter raised an eyebrow.

Natasha raised hers right back.

“I assume you have a reason for asking?”

“Have you ever known me to call anyone for the sake of prurient gossip?”

“I know an evasion when I hear one, Romanoff.”

“Yes. I have a reason.”

“What do you want to know?”

Natasha leaned back. “Tell me I’m wrong: surprisingly muscular for a blind man with a desk job, and a surprising number of scars, some that might even have looked like knife wounds or bullets. Maybe you thought it was odd.”

“I did think it was odd,” Carter said after a minute. “I knew he’d had an accident, though, so I didn’t ask. How’d you know? Because I didn’t think you were interested enough to have firsthand experience.”

“It was a guess. I’m not. Not personally, anyway.”

“Professionally?”

Natasha nodded. “I just needed your confirmation. I have a query in to S.H.I.E.L.D., but I’m going to write a report up for Coulson.”

Carter winced. “Tell me I didn’t go to bed with an enemy agent.”

Natasha frowned. That would fit the facts… but… “I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t the impression I got either.”

“And did he seem,” Natasha said slowly. She didn’t want to bias Carter’s response. “Give me your impression of his ability to know where he was.”

“I think he’s really blind, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Natasha waited.

“But…” Carter frowned. “Now that you mention it. Once or twice— it was almost like he had radar, or something. He said his senses were—“

“Very sharp,” Natasha finished for her.

“He, ah, definitely wasn’t lying on that point.”

“I didn’t think he was,” Natasha said drily. Pause. “Did you leave it that you’d be in touch?”

“Very funny. We left it open-ended. But-- I don’t think it would feel right. After what you’ve— pointed out. I’m not here as an agent. I’m here as myself.”

“I’m... sorry,” Natasha offered.

“Don’t be. There are other attractive fish in the sea.” Then Carter sighed. “And less hazardous ones, too. I’m not usually a bad judge of character. Will you tell me when you figure out who he is?”

“I will.”

“Thanks.”

She hung up with Carter. Her phone chimed. She glanced at it. It was a message from Clint, with a picture. The text read, _my mom used to tell me it was polite to tell people who gave you things how you liked them, so here’s a picture of my birthday present in use._

… _um._

She eyed the phone with extreme, wary disfavor. She’d sent it to him early because she knew she wasn’t going to find anything better… and because it had made her laugh. And she’d… and she’d liked picturing it making _him_ laugh. And she’d been bored. And life on a deep cover mission, or any mission, was uncertain; by May 20  th  , she could have… gotten a really nasty paper cut. Or sprained her wrist from too much mouse-clicking. Anything could happen, on this action-packed and information-critical mission.

But the point was, she really, _really_ did not need to _see_ —

She shook her head, and opened the picture.

… _Barton--!_ He appeared to have hung the entire contents of the carton of purple underwear around his apartment. She replied: _Did you confuse your ass and your walls?_

The reply came immediately: _just thought the place could use some color._

_I hear the blood of your enemies is a very popular color this year._

_‘hear.’ but not from personal experience, right?_

_Of course not. What do you take me for? Someone sinister?_

She realized she was grinning. This was—

Oh, for God’s sake. She wasn’t going to do the Red Room’s work for them. That the fragments of them in her head would call this ridiculous didn’t mean she had to agree with them, or care whether it was ridiculous, or care what they thought about anything at all.

Clint was her _friend_. Clint had… taught her the entire concept of friendship, if she were being honest. She would not denigrate that because some ghosts were watching her.

_course not you’re all sunshine and fluffy forest creatures._

Oh, God. _You’re a ridiculous excuse for a human being_ , she wrote back.

_says the person who not only found but BOUGHT a twenty-pack of purple boxers._

While she was considering the snarkiest way to reply to that, he added: _which are awesome, by the way, thanks._ Then: _do you give all your coworkers underwear-themed birthday presents_

She smirked. _Do you really want to know the answer to that?_

There was a pause. _you know we’re having really nice weather here. oh look at the time. night._

Her smirk deepened. She put down her phone and picked up her computer again, ready for another _thrilling_ hour-- day, week-- as Natalie Rushman, corporate drone extraordinaire.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timing of the posting of this chapter is actually a coincidence; I didn't plan to publish it 4 days after Christmas. Frackville and Centralia are real places in Pennsylvania, but all people portrayed there are fictional.
> 
> Thanks to the commenter who pointed out that it's Hydra, not H.Y.D.R.A. Much easier to type. ;-) Thanks also to my betas, who have read every word of this story at least twice.


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